If On a Winter's Night...

by Say_It_In_Enochian

Summary:

England, 1196

Lord Charles de Devin is dying and has summoned his family home for one last Yuletide to settle his affairs and his children’s futures. Years after the King’s Crusade has reshaped the world, Castiel, a young noble burdened by his family’s disdain, struggles to find his place, torn between duty and a desire he dares not name.

When a troupe of Yuletide revelers visits the manor, social constraints crumble, and even a bastard son can be anyone’s equal. Among the masked dances and daring games, Dean, a traveling performer whose easy charm conceals unspoken sorrows shows Castiel that he is more than the world has allowed him to believe—and that some risks are worth taking.

As the twelve days of Christmas unravel secrets and ignite forbidden passions, Castiel must choose between the life he’s been resigned to and the one he secretly longs for.

 

Chapter 1: Homecoming

Notes:

This story has been in my head for two years now. It's time to get it out! Special thanks to Sarah and Lexi for beta-ing this work!

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England, Christmas Eve - 1196

 

Snow falls softly, and a crisp breath of juniper fills the air as if heaven and earth are welcoming Castiel home. He breathes in deeply the fresh scent of winter and is fourteen again, bittersweet memories like ghosts all around him. 

 

It’s been five years since he’s last seen his home, and in all that time he’s had barely a word or a letter from the father that once doted upon him. But now, Lord Charles is dying, and has summoned his sons and his remaining family home for one last gathering before his soul breaks free from his withering flesh. 

 

As the stone and timber framed manor looms in the distance, Castiel wonders if his impending reunion with his family will be as welcoming and filled with nostalgia as the scents and muffled sounds of the winter woods. Will it, too, be bittersweet? Or just bitter?

 

The party arrives at the manor just before the storm picks up. Castiel dismounts and watches while his half-brother Michael welcomes his Aunt Amara and Uncle Uriel. A young groom comes to take their mounts. Michael turns and ushers his aunt and uncle inside without giving Castiel so much as a glance. As the youngest son of Lord Charles, and a bastard at that, Castiel has learned by now not to expect any special treatment from his eldest brother - the heir to his father’s title and estate. He sighs, shouldering his own scrip and roll and follows them inside. 

 

Castiel heads right, past the hall, and up a winding stone staircase to his bedroom, only to find it’s been given to someone else for the duration of the twelve holy days. An acquaintance of Michael’s. Someone well borne. Someone Michael respects. Someone unlike Castiel. Since his father took ill, Michael assumed governance over most issues on the manor. He could argue with his brother about it but that would garner him nothing in the end but humiliation. It certainly wouldn’t serve him well to make an enemy of Michael so early in his visit by making his guest feel uncomfortable about the room. Castiel makes a hasty apology for disturbing the wellborn knight assigned to his childhood quarters, and sets out in search of the place appointed him. 

 

He is sent to an old storage room off the kitchen where four pallets are made up for Lord Charles’ lesser relations. Two of them are already claimed. Some traveling packs rest atop the two pallets farthest from the door. Castiel looks around and sets his bags at the foot of a pallet, unclasps his cloak, and flops down, taking a minute to close his eyes after the long journey. His thoughts are still filled with the slight over his room. His ears, hot with it. He wonders if exiling him from his room was his father’s wish or merely Michael’s doing. Then again, maybe it hasn’t been his room since he left all those years ago. Maybe everything he thought he had here was just an illusion. 

 

He inhales deeply and lets it out, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his eyes to will away the fatigue that plagues him from the long journey. It doesn’t pay to sit and feel sorry for himself. If he has to be here, he might as well seek out the company of the people who showed him kindness in his youth. Castiel has been looking forward to seeing Gadreel again. 

 

He stands, refastening his cloak, exits the repurposed storeroom, and heads outside. He pulls its blue wool, lined with soft black ermine, more tightly around him to protect against the growing chill. Whatever his circumstances, he’s glad not to be out in the cold tonight. He wonders about the small encampment his traveling party passed along the way in a clearing just a few miles north of the manor. A flame-haired woman clutched a shawl to her body as she made her way from a couple of two-wheeled carts to a cookfire. A few young men near the treeline were constructing a crude lean-to with deadfall they’d gathered, while another looked to be building a trench fire that ran the length of the shelter. What circumstances left them out in the cold on such a night?

 

Castiel is pulled from his imaginings at the sound of a horse whinnying up ahead. At the threshold of the stable, he sees the old stable master whose gaze is fixed somewhere beyond, looking off in the direction from whence Castiel came.

 

“Excuse me, Sir,” Gadreel’s eyes still search the distance, “But you wouldn’t happen to have encountered a young boy about this high?” he asks, holding his hand up about chest height. “I was told that young Master Castiel has come home.” 

 

Castiel chuckles. Gadreel smirks, turning fond eyes upon him now. “Why there you are! Impossible! How is it that in the whisk of a lamb’s tail you’ve grown into such a fine young man?”

 

“And how is it that you’ve grown shorter and grayer?” Castiel counters. With fond eyes, he tugs gently at Gadreel’s beard. 

 

“Ah. The two go hand in hand.” 

 

Gadreel limps slightly as he turns to lead him into the stable. Castiel doesn’t miss the wince of pain that flickers over the older man’s face, even though he tries to hide it. 

 

“Gadreel, what's happened?” 

 

“Oh, nothing but foolishness on my part. Got myself kicked by that new war stallion of Michael’s. Nothing time won't fix.”

 

The man claps Castiel on the shoulder and ushers him inside, pointing him in the direction of his horse, knowing that Castiel will want to check on her. They return to the room Gadreel and the stable hands use to meet and eat. Gadreel pours Castiel a cup of ale and beckons him to sit down and talk. 

 

Castiel’s reunion with the old stable master is most welcome. He's missed his home and fears his forced exile has not amounted to much. Shortly after his mother’s death, Castiel was sent to the estate of his uncle, Count Uriel, and his Aunt Amara to be fostered. At the time it was his father's intention for him to earn a knighthood. But at Lord Uriel’s estate, he was largely ignored, put off, and left to his own devices as the count traveled again and again on some secretive business. He hadn’t learned much soldiering there, but to escape pure boredom had perfected his letters in Latin, English, and French with the chaplain and learned from the head gardener the care and keeping of an apiary of bees. 

 

Whatever education Castiel tried to cobble together, he feared his father would be disappointed at all the things he failed to accomplish, even if it was hardly his fault that the proper training Uriel promised had never been provided. Perhaps if his Lord Charles had answered his letters. In any case, whatever his father’s plans are for him now, at least he gets to see Gadreel again. 

 

“I am happy to see your beloved horse is still in good care,” the old stable master notes.

 

“Of course. I care for Gwenhwyfar myself, the way you taught me.” Castiel smiles proudly. 

 

When he was six, his father gave Castiel a jennet of his own. Michael scoffed under his breath that it was a lady’s horse, and yes, his other brothers had at least gotten palfreys as their first mounts, but Castiel would take what he could get. Besides, she was a beautiful dapple grey, that nuzzled into him upon being introduced, and Castiel fell in love at first sight.

 

“You've done an excellent job. She still looks hale and happy though you’ll need a different mount if you’re to become a knight.” 

 

Castiel nods, regretfully. 

 

“How have you been, young master? Does your aunt’s husband treat you well?”

 

“Well enough, when I see him,” Castiel replies. “Is Gabriel coming?” he asks, changing the topic to avoid admitting how little progress he’s made on his way to knighthood. 

 

Before Castiel was sent away, his older brother Gabriel, having no rights of inheritance, took up the Cross at Lord Charles’ urging, so that he be granted two hundred acres of land and a small manor in the north. He left his young wife and three sons behind to seek his honor and glory and to provide for his own heirs. When Gabriel returned home to England little more than a year ago after six long years away it was to a ruined manor, empty of all but a few servants. He was heartsick to find his wife and eldest son had perished just two years prior when a sweating sickness swept through the countryside. His remaining two sons had been taken in by their mother’s family. Gabriel disappeared just three days after arriving home to news of their deaths and was now, according to gossip and rumor, making his way from one raucous party to another across England and Aquitaine, drowning his sorrows in debauchery. 

 

“I’m just an old stable hand and not privy to all the news of the household,” Gadreel explains, looking at Castiel meaningfully.  “But I believe your brother has not responded to Lord Charles’s invitation.”

 

Castiel’s lips press together. He nods stiffly, trying not to let his disappointment show. He’d already prepared himself for this kind of news. Even away from the manor Castiel has heard the stories of Gabriel’s vagabond-like life and worries for the brother who always looked out for and stood up for him when Luke or Michael were….well, being Luke and Michael. 

 

It’s late by the time Castiel finishes catching up with Gadreel. With the clouds blanketing the moonlight it’s quite dark, and the cold is settling deeply into his bones. The glow of torches in the main hall signals that the family and guests will soon be gathering for supper. Likely some bread and a stew of beans or maybe some fish. Nothing too extravagant for the last night of the Advent fast. 

 

He enters the hall, hoping to find a friendly face, but there is no one he knows as of yet. Perhaps he’s been away for too long. Aunt Amara and Lord Uriel have likely taken their supper in their guest chambers, not that they would welcome his presence, and everyone here seems to be engaged in their own conversations. 

 

Castiel takes a seat by himself at the end of a long trestle table and tries to feign interest in the rafters…the mantle…the torches…anything to look occupied and unbothered. Anything to look like something other than the unwanted runt of Lord Charles de Devin’s litter. 

 

A smiling maid soon arrives with a tankard of ale and a bowl of bean stew. He reaches for a loaf of bread set in the center of the table, tears himself a piece, and eats quietly, listening to the chatter of conversation around him. He’s about to sop up the last of the meager stew with his bread when he feels a slap on his shoulder. It's Ed, and behind him is Harry - his cousins, -second? Third cousins? Castiel remembers not how they’re related exactly, but it seems he's to share the storage room with them, along with another cousin Samandriel, who Ed has only just seen arrive.

 

They seat themselves at the table and assail him with a legion of questions.

 

“So Castiel, is it true your father is reviving the holiday revels?” Harry asks, leaning in. 

 

Ed’s eyes are a’light. “My father said he summoned all of his relations. We assumed it was just so he could make his peace with everyone, and give one last feast and a few masses for his soul over Christmastide. But I heard the maids say there’s a troupe of players and musicians coming!”

 

Castiel’s brow furrows and he looks between them “I…I don’t know.” 

 

When he was a child his father, though frugal to the point of parsimony on most occasions, allowed one great outlet a year in the form of the Yuletide revels. Castiel remembers magicians and acrobats and spectacles that amazed and delighted him. For those twelve days, it was as if they entered a whole new world. A topsy-turvy world where a king might defer to a fool… a noble heir pay deference to a bastard. Castiel remembers being jealous as a youth, that he was sent to bed before most of the merriment, his mother assuring him that one day he’d be old enough to partake in it himself. But then his mother died, Lord Charles put aside the practice, and Castiel was sent away. 

 

Samandriel arrives just in time to get a morsel of food, and Castiel reports that if the revels of his youth were any indication, then there will be a troupe of players, minstrels, and perhaps even a magician. Each night for twelve nights there will be music, feasting, and dance. 

 

It’s a warm memory, and one that Castiel might welcome again if things were different. If he felt at home here - but to be honest, Castiel wants none of it. He’d as soon make whatever peace with his father he must, and then be on his way. This manor…these walls… are a constant reminder of what he’s lost. For a long time Castiel has felt alone in the world, but the most terrible thing of all is feeling alone in your own home. 

 

The cousins continue their excited predictions and speculations about the fun to be had in the weeks to come. Harry tells them a story of his last Yule - a scandalous tale of a blond maid who’d introduced him to a friend and the wild night they’d spent together. Castiel fades into the periphery, content to drift into his own thoughts.

 

He wonders if the rumors of a troupe of revelers are true. They finish dinner and head toward their shared room. Castiel makes his way past it and into the kitchen to ask. Mildred will know. Mildred knows everything.

 

“Mildred’s gone a’bed,” one of the servants tells him as he carries some scrubbed-out cauldrons back to the hearth. “Up before dawn she’ll be, preparing for the Christmas feast. Can I help’ye?”

 

“I– I was told there'd be revelers coming. I just thought Mildred would know if they were.”

 

“They’re coming alright but they’ve not arrived yet,” a kitchen maid answers. “The Master doesn’t want them underfoot until the proper day.”

 

“The Master? Or Sir Michael?” came the sharp reply from the young man with the cauldrons. “Everyone seems to forget he’s not yet the Master, especially with Lady Hester ordering everyone around like the queen herself.”

 

“He might as well be. Lord Charles barely rises from his bed,” the maid replies. “They say it’s not long now.”

 

“Oi! You two!” another servant yells. “You mind your tongues and who you’re talking to!” She calls, swooping over. She's slightly older. Castiel thinks he recognizes her.

 

“Jo?”

 

The woman dips her head at him. “Forgive them their insolence, Master Castiel. Empty heads and lively mouths, both of them!”

 

The last time he’d seen Jo she was a foot shorter, though just as fiery. They’d raced each other through these halls as children.

 

“You needn't call me Master, Jo.” Castiel huffs a laugh, with a chagrined smile. “Lord knows I’m no one’s master.”

 

She smiles politely but curtsies to him still, the old familiarity they once had, stolen by time and propriety. An awkward silence settles over them leaving Castiel anxious to break away.

 

“Well…I- I’ll come and see Mildred in the morning. Thank you, all…” he glances at each of them, giving the group a nod. "Good night.”

 

Castiel makes his retreat through the kitchen door but the murmur of voices stops him just the other side of it. 

 

“You two’ll end up flogged if you don’t learn to mind your tongues!”

 

“Didn’t know, did I? And he came right in the kitchens like a servant.”

 

“He’s the one, though isn’t he? Lord Charles’s bastard– OW!”

 

“I said mind your tongue! You’ll get worse than a slap on the back of the head if you don’t watch yourself.”

 

The words of the young servants settle uneasily like a stone in his chest. Lord Charles hasn’t been well for some time, but hearing it spoken so plainly and callously strikes a nerve. All the venom he’d stored up for his father seems to drain away and he wishes he could be ten again, before his mother took ill, before Gabriel went to war. Before everything changed. 

 

He slips away before they can notice him lingering and goes to his shared storage room-turned-bed-chamber, their voices trailing after him like shadows.  

 

The room they share is warmed by the ambient heat from the stones of the kitchen’s great hearth, the back of which takes up one whole wall. It’s late by the time Castiel and the others settle in with their belongings, but midnight, and with it the solemn mass of Christ’s birth, is still an hour away. He washes his face in a basin to try to revive himself, then settles in for a game of dice with his cousins until, at last, the bell in the great chapel tolls. 

 

The inhabitants of the manor make their way to the chapel for the service. It’s crowded, but at least he’s not crammed in with total strangers. Ed and Harry seem a bit foolish, but harmless enough. Samandriel seems a quiet, thoughtful soul, which is fine by Castiel who never had much of a gift for conversation himself. 

 

His father is not present at the mass. Castiel inquires with Michael and is informed that Lord Charles has been told of his arrival but is tired from his ailments and taking mass in his chambers. His brother assures him his father will summon Castiel sometime tomorrow when he’s ready to address him. 

 

Summon when he’s ready to address him. He wonders if these are his father's words or Michael's.

 

Having done his duty to God, Castiel returns to his makeshift chamber, Samandriel, Ed, and Harry close behind. It’s too late for dice and too cold for anything but burrowing under the blankets. The young men prepare themselves for bed. 

 

The wind outside is howling now, so unlike the soft welcoming of flurries he’d ridden through on his way here. Behind him Harry decides to make use of his chamber pot rather than suffer the cold wind on the way to the stable yard privy. Ed comments on how much he drank and warns Harry that he’d better not steal his pot if he ends up having to go again in the night. 

 

Castiel is glad he’d visited the privy after his visit to Gadreel and drank little at dinner. He pulls off his tunic, folding it and placing it atop his scrip before laying down in his shift and woolen hose. He covers himself and tries to sleep, but his mind is buzzing with thoughts of meeting his father on the morrow. What will he say to Castiel, after so long a time apart? What does he want of Castiel when he dies? 

 

He tries to settle but he’s shivering so he reaches over for his cloak and pulls that over himself for good measure, hunching down under the covers and silently cursing the cold. He thinks then of the flame-haired woman from the forest…the small, inadequate, shelter and the young men gathering wood for warmth, and is grateful for the cramped but sheltered accommodation he’s been given. Could they be the troupe? He sends up a prayer for their health and safety before closing his eyes and hoping for sleep. 

Notes:

Thank you for giving this a try! This chapter is mostly stage-setting and world-building. The next chapter will post on Christmas Eve and Castiel will get his first real glimpse of Dean.

Yes, Ed and Harry are the Ghostfacers. 😂 And the surname de Devin is a play on the word "divine" because - you know - Chuck, angels, and all that!

If you enjoyed this so far please say hi! I'd love to know your thoughts and questions. Comments are amazing fuel and inspiration!

Chapter 2: The First Day of Christmas

Summary:

Christmas Day - the Players arrive.

Notes:

Thank you to all of you who have left comments and kudos at the start and to those of you who have subscribed! It means a lot! 🥰 And yeah, full disclosure - I stole a line from the 13th Warrior in this chapter. lol

Here is Chapter 2 as promised! A Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate! This is a long one as the stage is still being set so settle in and get cozy!

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December 25th 1196

 

Castiel pulls the blankets over his head—any little thing to help him get warm and block out the noise from the kitchen. Whatever heat the stones of the hearth captured the previous day is long gone. His stocking-clad feet feel like they’re encased in ice. The last straw is a loud clatter followed by angered shouts in the kitchen beyond. He isn’t going to get any more sleep at this point. He might as well just get up. 

 

He sits up, teeth chattering so loud he’s amazed the others can sleep through it. He throws back the blanket, hurries to pull on his tunic and boots, and tries his best not to trip over Samandriel as he makes his way to the door. Castiel wonders if he could find a small brazier to use for the night, but knowing Hester’s tight control on all of the manor’s resources even if he could find one, he’d likely have to beg or steal the coal to fill it. Even then where would he put it? The room is so small there's no place far enough from the mess of bodies and blankets to risk someone accidentally kicking it over in their sleep. 

 

He lifts the cover of the chamber pot gagging at the stench of stale urine. Dammit! He woke last night to the sound of Ed or Harry having a go. One of them must have used his too. Castiel laces up his breeches and heads into the hallway. 

 

The hallway is no better. Castiel can see his breath in the cold morning air. Perhaps it is a gift being so near the kitchen he thinks as he leaves the cold hallway and steps inside. It’s likely the warmest place in the manor right now. Besides, Mildred loves him like a son and he can make himself useful here, enjoying the warmth of the cooking fires until he is summoned by his father – but right now Nature is calling. He has no time to tarry here yet so slips quickly out the side door. 

 

The stable yard privy is out of the way, so he ducks into the cold to the alley between the kitchen and the workshop and finds a spot to piss. Then, having taken care of his business, he finds his way back into the kitchen.  

 

“CASTIEL!!! My sweet boy!!” Mildred yells, putting down her pairing knife and opening her arms wide. “When did you get here?”

 

“I arrived yesterday evening.” Castiel smiles at the woman who’d been like a second mother to him.

 

Mildred surrounds him with her arms and he gives her a squeeze. She smells of ginger and sweet spices from the honeyed tarts she’s preparing.

 

“God giv'ee good Yule, child,” she adds, “My, you’ve shot up like a beanpole!”

 

He can’t help but smile. “God give ye good Yule, Mildred.” 

 

“Oh that hair of yours!” She looks up at him, attempting to tame his brunet tufts with her fingers. “Did you sleep in a haystack last night?”

 

“A haystack would have been warmer.” Just to be mischievous he brushes her cheek with his icicle fingers and she jumps away with an “Ooph!”

 

“You’re hands! They’re freezing!” She grasps them, apparently not finished with her appraisal of him. She rubs the cold out of his hands with her warm ones before giving the back of his hand an affectionate pat. “Come child! Sit by the fire and I’ll get you some hot cider.”

 

“Thank you. But I’m here to help too.”

 

“Such a sweet boy! I’ll put you to work in good time. Warm up a bit first. Tell me what you’ve been doing all these years away at the Lady Amara’s.”

 

“Oh,” he blushes, looking down at his own hands and rubbing them, “Nothing of consequence.”

 

She takes it as a show of modesty and Castiel is fine with that. No need for her to find out he has more experience with apiaries than armaments and be disappointed in him too. 

 

Mildred ushers him to a stool perched closely to the fire and ladles a mug of mulled cider from one of the hanging cauldrons. Castiel thanks her and sips the hot beverage.  He presses his still achingly cold fingers around the warm mug and soon the blood seems to flow inside them again. 

 

Serving girls hustle past. One of them glances at Castiel then blushes when their eyes meet, giggling and whispering to her friend as they hurry with trays to the main hall. 

 

“Well now, I see I won’t be able to have you here in the kitchen long or you’ll have half the servants in a tizzy with your handsome looks.”

 

Mildred holds one hand out for the mug, a bowl of spiced porridge for Castiel in the other. He thanks her, exchanging the mug for the porridge. 

 

“I likely won’t be here long.” He chews his lip, then shrugs, “I’m not sure I have a place here anymore anyway. Father only sent for me because he’s dying. I suspect he’ll have some instruction for me, for my future. When Michael inherits, it’s unlikely he’ll have me back at Christmastide next year.”

 

A look of something – not quite anger … disapproval perhaps? crosses her face. She shakes her head, “Lord, I can’t understand why a handsome lad like you is sent to the priesthood.”

 

Castiel’s eyes narrow, a cautious smile on his lips as he gently corrects her. “It’s my brother Luke who’s the priest, Mildred. My father sent me to be trained for war.” Castiel smiles gently. “Surely you know that. You know everything that goes on in this family.”

 

Mildred has aged since he was sent away, her hair mostly white and silver now. Castiel wonders whether her mind and memory are not declining with age as he’s sometimes observed in the elderly. 

 

She averts her eyes. “Oh…yes,” She blushes and busies herself turning to the poultry she’s preparing for the spit. 

 

Castiel’s brow furrows at her demeanor, her sudden intense focus on the pullet she’s trussing. He places a hand on her arm. “Mildred? What is it? Has my father said something different?”

 

Mildred waved her hand as if to dismiss his concern, “Oh no lad. Don’t mind me. It’s my age, dear,” she tells him, seeming to confirm Castiel’s concerns. “Can’t seem to remember what I’m doing half the time, let alone what everyone else is up to, and with all these guests – well it’s a feat to keep my wits about me. So…” she looks up at him from her work on the pullet, hands grabbing another and trussing it with practiced ease, “you’ve been to see your father?”

 

His eyes fix on Mildred’s sure hands as she makes swift work of the bird then grabs and starts in on another purely by habit.  

 

“No. He hasn’t invited me into his presence yet.” 

 

Castiel regrets that he can’t keep the hint of annoyance from his answer. His father is ill after all, and who knows how poorly he is even now as he hastens toward death.

 

This homecoming has emotions surfacing in him, both conflicting and unsettling.  He doesn’t understand what he feels from moment to moment. It seems Castiel has more than one father in his memory. There was the loving, smiling father who, when his mother was alive, pulled Castiel into his lap and told him stories, delighted in his learning, doted on him. Then his mother died, and just when Castiel needed him most his father suddenly couldn’t bear to look at him.

 

‘Too much like her,’ some whispered…. ’poor man, of course he can’t bear to be reminded’ others agreed. Was that all Castiel was to his father? A reflection of his mother? Did anyone think of the weight of loss that a mere child had to bear? Was his father that fragile? Or that selfish - that he couldn’t see or didn’t care that his own blood needed him more than ever? He’d lost his mother and father and home in a matter of months. 

 

He shoves away his memories of that time. His father is dying and despite their estrangement, Castiel’s heart will inevitably break again, even if, or perhaps because his father abandoned him when he needed him most. The only person other than his mother he’s ever been able to count on is, as far as anyone knows, lost as well.

 

“Mildred? Gadreel said he didn’t think Gabriel responded to Father’s summons. Have you heard differently?” 

 

Mildred sighs then shakes her head. Her lips press together in a sad sort of smile.  “I always had a soft spot for that boy. A good heart, that one. You’re so much alike, you know. Though you were always a serious young thing,” she pats him on the back, “while Gabriel…he was a trickster when he was young. Used it to cover up his hurt. Pushed it down deep. I’m afraid losing the Lady Rachel and his boy…well…it’s not my place to judge I know, but I fear the loss may have broken him. Your father has sent near and far for his relations, Gabriel included. Last anyone heard he was galavanting across Normandy, though no one’s had word of him in quite some time….poor boy.” Mildred makes the sign of the cross, no doubt in a silent prayer for Gabriel’s lost wife and child, and for Gabriel himself. 

 

“Anyway, You listen to me, lad,” Mildred says changing the subject. “There’s plenty a’maids here for the festivities. You make sure to sow your wild oats a little now while you can. Get it out of your system. There’ll be little opportunity for dalliance once you take up the cross whether as a priest or a crusader. But NOT with any of my kitchen maids mind you!” she admonishes. “I’ve little help as it is, and if any of them get with child the mistress will never refill the position. Thinks I have too much help already. Hmmmpf.”

 

Castiel blushes at that, shaking his head. “You needn’t worry Mildred. I’ll steer clear of kitchen maids.” 

 

“Good! You’d better be true to your word on that -because your brother Luke cost me one of my best girls when he was your age, and I’ve not forgiven him for it! It’s a darned good thing he’s off in Rome this Yule!” 

 

Castiel knew Mildred was teasing him, and put up his hand as he nodded as if taking a solemn oath. He didn’t bother pointing out that the difference between himself and his brother was that, while Luke was said to have populated half the countryside with bastards before he left for his ‘vocation,’ Castiel had never had the slightest physical or romantic interest in any of the girls he’d met. The worst he’d do to Mildred is abscond with one of the kitchen lads charged with turning the spit, thereby letting the roast be ruined while he ruins Castiel. But he dares not even think of such things. 

 

Castiel stands, scraping his bowl to gather one final portion of porridge and spooning it into his mouth before handing it back to Mildred. “Thank you, Mildred, for the cider and breakfast. So is there something I can help you with here? It’s not like I’m needed elsewhere at least until Michael and my father send for me.”

 

“Occh! Hush. No sulking now.” She admonishes fondly, waving a hand in response to his melancholy tone. 

 

Guilt and a tinge of worry come over him. “How sick is he, Mildred?… I mean, I know he is dying, but…”

 

Mildred rubs a hand up and down his arm, perhaps sensing his need for comfort. When she speaks, she speaks softly. “Your father has been fading these past few months. I imagine he wanted to have you all home when he could still have some strength about him. But he grows weaker and weaker each day. I believe he’s been saving much of his strength for the feast tonight.” Mildred lets her hand drop, grabs both of Castiel’s and squeezes. “He sleeps much of the day. Do not be cross with him when he calls you, dear. I believe he regrets the time he lost with you.”

 

Castiel bristles, “I didn’t ask to be sent away.”

 

“Nonetheless, what’s done is done. Your father will be surely glad to see you when he’s finally up for it.” 

 

Castiel gives a reluctant nod. Mildred gathers his hands together and gives them a squeeze before letting them drop. “In the meantime,” she adds, her voice sharper, more practical now as she turns back to her task, “we do need some casks brought up from the cellar, and normally I’d have young Ezra do it, but he’s elbow deep preparing the roasts for tonight’s supper.”

 

Castiel smiles, inclining his head in respect. He’s happy to have a task to keep his mind from spiraling off in a hundred directions. He throws himself into his borrowed work.

 

When he’s finished hauling the casks up from the cellar, he sets about refilling the bin of kindling needed to feed the great hearth. With so many guests to provide for, the hearth fires will be hungrier than ever. Several cauldrons, and spits thick with pullets and venison for roasting line its belly, and already a savory fragrance fills the kitchen making Castiel’s mouth water. 

 

Next Mildred sets him about kneading dough for the forty loaves of bread the kitchens would need to produce that day. It’s a task he shares with Mildred and two of her kitchen maids who blush as they steal glances his way. Castiel casts the occasional smile but keeps his conversation between himself and Mildred. She explains they are making several kinds of loaves. Fine bread for the guests, rustic and course for the servants and the players. Yes, Mildred confirms a troupe of players is arriving sometime today. 

 

Castiel marvels at the magnitude of the baking alone, knowing that it will all need to be repeated on the morrow. 

 

Finally, they finish loading the bread onto the boards where they will be left to rise again until batches of them are sent to take their turn into the ovens. Mildred shoos Castiel from the kitchen with another hug, claiming she and the other servants can take it from here, and reminding him to wash up lest people think he’s slept in a flour bin. This makes the kitchen maids giggle as he looks down at his tunic, now dusted with coarse brown flour. He should have donned an apron when she’d offered him one earlier, but what did he know of baking?

 

Castiel kisses Mildred on the cheek and heads out. He stops back at his room to grab his cloak. Edward and Harry are still snoring despite the late hour. He considers his options. He really has no desire to stay in the hall with Michael’s family. He’s seen Michael’s eldest son Raphael, named for their brother who’d died in infancy, and he seems a perfectly agreeable child, but Michael’s and Hester’s treatment of Castiel ranges from indifference to outright disdain, depending on their mood and their company. 

 

After washing the flour from his face and arms and doing his best to dust his tunic clean – he’ll change into a fresh one before he presents himself to his father – Castiel wraps his cloak around himself, heads outside, and makes his way to the stables to spend some time feeding and grooming Gwenhwyfar and hopefully pass the time until the feast tonight if his father doesn’t summon him first.

 

There is, as there was in the kitchens, a general flurry of activity due to the arriving guests, with several grooms mucking the stalls and bringing in fresh hay. At the end of the long row of stalls is a tack room and in the corner, a small table and chair where the grooms usually take their meals. Gadreel is sitting there now, working on repairing a bridle and harness. 

 

Castiel wraps his knuckles on the frame of the doorway and the older man looks up.

 

“Master Castiel,” Gadreel greets with a smile. Placing the bridle on the table, he reaches for his crutch and uses it to stand. “Here to see your sweet old girl?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel confirms brightly, “but also to visit with you again if that’s alright.” He decides to get right to the point. “Gadreel, I really don’t want to be in there with Michael and his family,” he says nodding towards the manor house. “I was hoping I could spend some time helping you out here until my father summons me.”

 

Gadreel’s lips press together before admonishing, “Young master, they are your family too.”

 

Castiel shrugs but does not argue. To his relief, Gadreel does not press, but sets him about feeding and brushing out the horses. He makes sure to spend some extra time talking to and doting upon his Gwenny, as Castiel calls her for short, lest she be jealous of the others. He pulls an apple Mildred gave him from his pocket. Taking a bite or two, he gives the rest to his appreciative horse, before moving on to the next set of chores Gadreel has lined up for him. 

 

He works and talks with Gadreel until evening, before returning to the manor to get ready for the Christmas feast. 

 

As he walks he spots several new faces in the courtyard, unloading gear from several large handcarts. Castiel recognizes the flame-haired woman from the clearing among them. So…it was the troupe they passed along the way, building shelter and fires against the threat of cold. The snow is still thick on the ground. Castiel thinks about how difficult it must have been to haul the handcarts through the snow for miles, but then he sees a young man kneeling next to one. Two of his fellow players shoulder the weight of the cart, lifting long enough for the young man to remove a long wooden runner they’d attached to the bottom of the carts wheels. Castiel had never seen such a contraption and stays to watch, struck by the troupe’s ingenuity as they remove the runner on the other side.

 

“Ash!” 

 

The young man looks up and over to another trio removing runners from a second cart. 

 

“This one’s broken. We’re gonna need to fashion a fix for it before we move on.” 

 

 ‘Ash’ gets up, saunters over, and runs his hand through his shoulder-length hair, giving it a whip before crouching down, “Stand back and watch a genius at work, boys. I’ll have it gliding smoother than a knave’s—”

“ASH!” 

Castiel jumps. The flame-haired woman is standing right beside him, eyes, sharp as daggers, narrowed on Ash. 

“Remember where we are, dearie,” she smiles, her Scottish lilt sweet as a song. She turns that same smile on Castiel, giving him a polite nod.

“Sorry, Rowena! Sorry m’lord!” Ash yells before getting back to work.

 

“These young boys today,” the woman— Rowena, apparently —sighs, her voice light but laced with teasing. “Their minds are always on one thing, don’t you know!” She adds a wink for good measure.

 

Castiel feels heat rise to his cheeks. The ‘young boys’ she speaks of are about his own age, and here he is, standing awkwardly in the courtyard, gawking like a fool. He dips his head in a stiff nod, murmurs a polite farewell, and makes a hasty retreat before the blush can creep any further up his neck.

Just inside the great wooden doors to the manor house, a dour, stout man with a dark trim beard and short dark hair is talking with Bartholomew, his father’s steward. The man’s clothes are unusual, - all black with gold embroidery along the shoulders. His sleeves are tied on with gold ribbons and the embroidered gold continues down to his wrists. The steward, instructs him that his “troupe” will be fed as part of their agreement after the evening’s revels. 

“Gregory will see that you are settled in and give you the agreed upon provisions.” 

The man nods, giving a curt bow to the steward then turns to leave. He tips his head to Castiel as he passes, catching his eye as if sizing him up. 

 

“Who was that?” Castiel asks Bartholomew.

 

“He is the master of the revelers your father has engaged to entertain the guests these twelve nights. I was explaining where he could get lodging in one of the outbuildings and supper for his troupe.”

 

Castiel spares a glance back down the corridor but the man is gone. “About my father – I’ve yet to see him since my arrival. When can I expect an audience with him?”

 

Bartholomew eyes Castiel, suppressing a mildly amused smile. “In his few waking hours, Lord Charles has been busy with matters of importance. You can’t expect him to have time to deal with every petty concern,” he says as if Castiel is an annoyance and not the son of his master. But then again, Bartholomew has always been Michael’s man. 

 

Castiel straightens, eyes narrow on the steward. He steps forward. “Is that how you address a son of this house?”

 

Bartholomew’s eyes widen. He straightens and steps back into the wall. “Umm…no Master Castiel. Forgive me. I meant no offense,” he says quickly, remembering himself.

 

“Where is he now, my father?” Castiel pins the servant to the wall with his glare. He may be a bastard and treated as such by his family, but he won’t suffer the insolence of Michael’s bootlicking weasel. 

 

“He’s been resting most of the day in the hopes of enjoying the feast tonight and, to my knowledge, will be coming to the hall soon. I will make sure to convey your concern for him.”

 

Castiel’s eyes search the steward's face, but Bartholomew seems contrite enough at the moment. He gives the man a curt nod. “Make sure you do.” 

 

Bartholomew nods, lowering his eyes from Castiel’s. 

 

“Well?” Castiel cocks his head, and Bartholomew's wide eyes are back on his at the command evident in his voice. “Don’t you have tasks to attend to?” He flicks his fingers toward the great hall dismissing the steward. 

 

With a clipped “Yes, Master Castiel. Thank you,” Bartholomew bows his head and scurries back toward the great hall and the family’s quarters.

 

Castiel realizes he’s clenching his jaw. He takes a deep breath and tries to let the tension and the sting of Bartholomew’s slight go, as he turns left toward the kitchen and his makeshift bed chamber.  A servant has refreshed a basin of water for them to use. He strips down to his bare chest and uses a wet rough cloth to scrub his face, his neck, and his torso. The water is ice cold, but he feels refreshed as he digs through his scrip for a fresh linen shirt and tunic. He doesn’t have many, but it’s fitting to have something clean for the Christmas feast. Besides, his father may not have sent for him as of yet, but there was every reason to think Castiel will see him in the great hall tonight. 

 

When he arrives in the hall it’s to a general din of many people already drinking and laughing. He recognizes several of the faces. Earl Ishim, a close ally of his father’s and his wife, the Lady Mirabel, are speaking with a baroness. A few older knights that he recognizes as his father's men are seated together laughing and toasting one another as they relive their glory days. There are a few lesser relations that Castiel has never met but seen in passing, but most of the hall is filled with knights and noblemen of Michael’s generation. He sees Lady Hester speaking and smiling with a couple whose fine clothing and placement near the high table indicate they must be guests of some noble rank. She slips out the side door of the hall and Castiel assumes that means she and Michael and hopefully their father will soon take their seats at the high table. 

Castiel as one of Charles's sons would be expected to be near the front of the gathering, even if he is not invited to sit at the high table. He takes a seat on the bench across from Ed and Harry. Harry is telling a bawdy joke and plotting to gain the attentions of a certain scullery maid before the night is through. Samandriel arrives a few moments into the story, and Castiel shifts closer to the edge of the bench to make room for him. 

 

A solitary musician, a young man playing an oud, sits on a stool in the corner nearest the high table. He wears a short fitted tunic that settles just below his waist. It’s a rich forest green, and the skillful tailoring almost hides the fact that it’s made of course, inexpensive wool. His sleeves are tied with thin sleek ribbons, dyed a lighter green for contrast and simple embroidery line the neck of his tunic and cuffs of his sleeves. His woolen hose are a striking woad-blue and his boots of worn brown leather complete the ensemble. Castiel has never seen course materials rendered so artfully to create the illusion of wealth, and the young man’s bright confident bearing belies his status as a mere performer. 

 

Before Ed can start in with his own story the young musician begins to sing, garnering everyone’s attention. It’s a French ballad – a song about a young woman whose sweetheart went off on Crusade. At Harry’s request, Castiel translates.

 

My love to Syria is sent

The Lord his shield, and sword

My heart it follows after him

For duty takes my love from me

But loyalty will lead him home

 

The accented French of the musician’s song is slightly off, as if the words or their meaning are foreign to the man and merely memorized, but his song is sweet and the timbre of his voice stirs something within Castiel as he listens. He concentrates on the young musician’s lips as he sings, to be sure of the words. His eyes flick up briefly, catching those of the young man’s, intent upon him, dark in the firelight of the hall. Castiel freezes – a hot flush rises along his neck and cheeks. The man’s lips curve in a half smile before his gaze moves on.

 

Cocky.

 

As if he’s aware of Castiel’s …inclinations.

 

“Wait! So he’s singing about missing a man?” Harry asks.

 

Castiel stiffens.

 

Samandriel cocks a grin “Songs are just stories Harry, not confessions. You’ve been telling stories about women all night, but I’ll bet you’ve never even kissed one.”

 

Ed chokes on his ale. “Yeah, Harry! Your sister doesn’t count!” he raises his cup to Samandriel with a grin.

 

“Shows what you know,” Harry mutters, petulant. 

 

Castiel quickly turns his attention to the bread and wine that’s just been brought out and allows Ed to draw them into a story, fearful of giving any attention back to the young man. Ed drones on and Castiel smiles politely, pretending to follow along, even chuckling half-heartedly on cue with Samandriel and Harry, but his mind is wrapt up in the soft features of the young musician, to his left. He wants to steal another glance at the plump lips, the slight cleft in his chin, the strong jaw, clean-shaven and unblemished. He looks up at the empty high table, then around to the other guests in the hall. They’re all engaged in their own conversations and laughter. 

 

Calm down….calm down… he thinks desperately. Don’t be stupid. No one knows.

 

The song ends and guests applaud. Castiel steals another glance, but the boy’s attention is elsewhere. He’s smiling, inclining his head in the direction of a young woman, a dark-haired servant girl who smiles prettily as she hands the young man a cup of ale to quench his thirst. 

 

The hall erupts into cheers and Castiel’s attention shifts again to the dias, where Castiel’s father, his brother Michael and his wife, as well as Michael’s eldest son take their places at the high table with his Aunt Amara and Uncle Uriel. Lord Charles meets Castiel’s eager eyes, and nods his head with a smile, acknowledging his youngest son before turning his attention to Michael. They exchange words and Lord Charles turns his attention to Castiel again, beckoning him with a wave of his hand. 

 

He feels as though all eyes are on him as he approaches the dias, going behind the table to present himself dutifully, yet more privately to his father. Castiel bends his knee, inclining his head. “It’s good to see you father.” 

 

Lord Charles lays a hand on his youngest son’s hair. Castiel feels the soft weight of it like a benediction. “My son. It seems your brother Michael neglected to tell me of your arrival. I only found out upon visiting with your Aunt Amara today. I’m happy you’re home.”

 

Castiel looks up, meeting his father’s eyes. He sees sincerity within, though the face that surrounds them is gaunt and pained. Charles holds out his hands and Castiel places his own between them. 

 

“I’m happy to be home, Father,” he replies and is surprised to find he means it. The sudden flood of emotion is unexpected. It lodges in his throat like a stone.

 

“Tomorrow, around noontide come see me in my chambers,” Charles bids him. “We will settle your future prospects.” 

 

“Yes, Father,” Castiel nods. His father gives his hands a squeeze dismissing him. He returns to his bench at the front of the hall. He sits, oblivious to Ed and Harry’s questions, his gaze fixed blankly on his own hands where they rest on the table.

 

His hands…strong like his father’s were when Castiel was just a child and Lord Charles had taken his small hands in his own, had shown him how to draw sounds.

 

“It’s called writing, Castiel,” his father corrected with a small chuckle, “And those who can draw sounds and speak them back have access to great wisdom unknown to most men. They can command armies and make themselves immortal with the stroke of a pen.” Castiel remembers when his father’s strong fingers curved around his tiny ones, as he first learned to grasp the reed, guiding them as he learned to draw his name. Those same fingers, now so frail, skin papery and thin…

 

It sits like an anvil on his chest. His father is dying. 

 

He’s snapped out of his reverie as a servant slaps a thick slice of bread before him on the table, the rough trencher bread Castiel’s own hands, capable hands, his father’s hands, shaped only this morning.

 

Another servant arrives with a bowl & pitcher, placing it between Castiel and his dinner companions. Despite the tangled snarl in his heart and mind, the savory scent of the first course as it arrives in the hall reminds his stomach he’s not eaten since breakfast and it lets out a series of growls that refuse to be quieted. Castiel holds his hands over the bowl while the man pours warm water scented with rosemary over them, then rubs them dry with linen before moving to Harry then Ed and so on until all of the guests at the table have had their hands washed. 

 

Soon servants are laying down platters of bread with fresh cheese curds and pickled onions. A wooden bowl of barley and bacon pottage is set between the four of them to share. Another set further down the table for other guests, and so forth.  Ed and Harry are digging into the pottage, knocking spoons together in their enthusiasm to capture a bit of the bacon. Ed wins, but Harry digs in the bowl for more and Castiel waits patiently for a turn, nodding to Samandriel to have a go first. 

 

Ed and Harry are shoving food in their mouths as if there aren’t three more courses to go. Castiel glances up at the young musician, whose elegant fingers press along the neck of the oud. The young man’s chin lifts subtly as his eyes track the food-laden tray of a passing servant. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth before a swift pink tongue darts between them leaving a faint sheen. Castiel lowers his spoon and wonders when the boy has last eaten. 

 

The young musician flicks his gaze and catches on Castiel’s, the cocky grin he wore before is gone. There’s a hollow shift in the young man’s throat before he looks away, and even in the dim glow of the firelight Castiel can see the flush rising on his cheeks. 

 

Castiel returns his attention to the food before him, his hunger feels less sharp than it did a moment before. He reminds himself that the troupe will be fed when the dinner is done. He needn’t worry for the young man. 

 

For the second course, there’s venison, and roast pullet, root vegetables glazed in honey, and a selection of sauces made of apples, pears, and plums. Castiel feels full to bursting before the third course, apple tarts and sugared almonds, is even laid out for them. As the evening and conversation go on his tart lays untouched, but he can’t help but sample the almonds, their sugar coating a gift to his father from an old friend who’d returned from the Levant. Finally, small bowls of figs and hazelnuts are laid out on the tables as warm red wine spiced with clove and cinnamon is poured out for the guests. 

 

Harry is just asking Castiel if he is going to eat his tart when a bright blare of horns trumps, pulling everyone’s attention to the entryway of the hall where a parade of revelers –  jugglers, musicians, men in costumes, and acrobats, enter, all to great applause and the sound of drums. Castiel’s father may have been tight with his purse strings during most of his life, but he loved his enjoyments, and this year with the end of his life approaching, Sir Charles had decided to outdo himself with the order of entertainment. 

 

Castiel watches as the young man who’d been singing and playing the oud gets up quietly, puts on a mask, and slips in to join the rest of his troupe, his oud now held against his back by a fabric band that stretches across his slim torso. A moment later he’s trading flaming batons, tossing them in the air with another masked reveler.  

 

In front of the troupe is the only unmasked man of the lot. He wears a black coat and trousers, - the same man Castiel saw speaking with the steward earlier that day. With a clap of his hands, the drums halt and the activity of the players ceases. They stand at attention, as he addresses the room. His voice is gravelly, his cadence sharp and shifting as he commands the attention of the various groups assembled there. 

 

“Lords and Ladies! -” he turns, “Squires and Scullery Maids! - Young and Old! Meek…,” the man’s eyes, shrewd as a falcon’s, sweep through the crowd. “And Bold!” he says finally, settling on and locking eyes with Castiel. He pauses long enough for Castiel to tense at the sound of bodies shifting, heads turning - the prickle of a hundred eyes upon him like nettles on bare skin. Castiel flicks a glance to the dias catching Michael’s sharpened gaze, his father’s assessing one. At last, the man’s lips curl and he continues, releasing Castiel from the weight of their collective scrutiny. “Allow me to introduce myself. Fergus Crowley, your Master of Revels,” he says declining his head. 

 

A breath rushes out of Castiel as the revel master reclaims the attention of the room.

 

“On behalf of my esteemed companions here I thank you, for lending us your eyes and ears on this most auspicious night!” The man bows low to the high table before turning to address the assemblage of the hall once more.

 

“For the next twelve nights Sir Charles, our most generous benefactor has engaged our talents for your delight, your amazement, and merriment. But before we begin the festivities we must first announce, that on our travels here we had the good fortune to encounter a special guest, who for these next Twelve Nights will be the Master of Merriment, the Prince of Pleasure the Jack of Jocularity, the Yeoman of Yule! Esteemed Assembly, I give you the Lord of Misrule!”

 

Horns sound again with a flourishing fanfare. The man in black flicks his hand near the entrance of the hall where a bang and flash of light let up a billow of smoke, eliciting cries of fear and wonder from the crowd. From behind the smoke emerges another man with a tawny beard, his patchwork robe a riot of color. A mask of green and gold covers his face, and a crown of holly sits proudly on his head.

 

“Greetings, my good fellows!” he cries as he raises his hands to each side of the assemblage. He approaches the dias waltzing confidently under the arc of fire created by the flaming batons tossed by the young oud player and his companion. The courtiers gasp as with a leap and a somersault he lands his feet with a plate rattling thud on the high table, right in front of Sir Charles. He turns where he stands to address the shocked audience

 

“Tis I, your Ruler of Revelries! And as today is the first day of this our Christmastide, I bid a very merry feast to you all,” he turns to Charles, “and especially to you my good father!” With that the ‘Lord of Misrule’ jumps down, removing his mask and giving the lords and ladies at high table a bow.

 

“Gabriel!” Castiel shoves himself up from the table so fast the bench skids beneath him. He’s moving before he realizes it, warmth rising sharp in his chest and breaking free in a broad, beaming grin.

 

“Yes, it’s me, little brother,” Gabriel says, his grin wide and wicked. “Did you doubt it?” He winks and grabs Castiel’s chin, tilting his head this way and that, as if inspecting him. “Huh. Thought you’d have some hair on your face by now.”

 

“Looks like you have enough for both of us,” Castiel laughs, shoving Gabriel’s hand away. Gabriel pulls him close and claps him on the back in greeting.

 

“Gabriel, my son. You’ve returned from the war.” 

 

The brothers break apart and look to the dias where Lord Charles stands looking down on his third and fifth born sons.

 

”With all the stories of your exploits abroad,” his father begins, with a pointed look, “I didn’t think I’d have the chance to see you again before my time was done here. Come. Sit by my side and have wine and some food.”

 

“I would gladly, Father,” Gabriel says, “but of course I wouldn’t dream of doing so until the company of these revelers here is also well-fed. Tonight’s entertainment was just a taste. Tomorrow their real work begins!”

 

Charles looks mildly annoyed but nods, “Of course! Of course. Take your company, Crowley, and sit. Enjoy the hospitality of the season tonight.”

 

Charles whispers in the ear of a servant and within a few moments a table is being set for the revelers with trenchers, spoons, and cups of ale at the far end of the hall as a place is cleared at the high table for Gabriel. 

 

Castiel sits back down as Gabriel takes his place on the dias and the courtiers get back to their food and wine. He wishes he’d had a chance to talk more with Gabriel. Perhaps the only other person here beyond Gadreel and Mildred he’s ever felt a connection with. 

 

Growing up as he did, Castiel grew used to feeling alone, but there’s something much worse about feeling alone in the midst of a hall full of laughter and cheer. Something even the presence of his current roommates does little to quell.

 

The servants begin to clear the tables of trays and more wine is poured. The whole company of courtiers, servants, and players let up a cheer when into the hall come six burley men, ropes pulled tight over their shoulders as they drag in the Yule Log, the trunk of a tree, cleared of its branches and leaves. It looks to be several feet in diameter and about a length and a half of the tallest of the six men. 

 

As they place the log on the bed of kindling in the great hearth, Sir Charles stands, pounding the table, calling for the attention of his guests.

 

“I want to thank each of you for coming to share this joyous season with us. I feel grateful to be honored with your presence and surrounded by my family, and pleased to have a company of such talented revelers to entertain us. Let us not delay any longer and welcome the season in with the lighting of our Yule Log.” 

 

Applause breaks out as Charles nods to one of the men who takes a torch to the kindling beneath the great hulk of a tree. The courtiers cheer loudly as the fire begins to blaze beneath the log.

 

“And now,” Lord Charles continues. “the lighting of the Christmas candles by my grandson, Raphael. It is customary as you know, that upon the lighting of the candles everyone present should make a wish for the coming year.”

 

Michael’s eldest comes down from the high table and is met by a servant who presents him with two long red tapers. The crowd is silent while he goes forward and carefully lights first one, then the other from the Yule fire. 

 

Castiel bore witness to this ceremony as a child, but he couldn’t remember a time when his wish had ever come true. His mind, after everything that has happened this day, is adrift, he doesn’t know what to wish for. His whole life feels adrift. He longs for someone or something to anchor him…for someplace he can finally feel he belongs.

 

The silence remains as the child and his nurse bring the candles forward and place them on the high table in front of Lord Charles who holds aloft his cup of wine and addresses the assembly once more.

 

“May the great log light our nights and warm us in these darkest days of winter, and let us share this good company tonight until the candles burn down! God give ye good Yule!”

 

The hall erupts in a refrain of “Good Yule!” Cheers ring across the hall as cups of wine and ale are raised, drained, and quickly refilled. Castiel tapped cups with Ed, Samandriel, and Harry.

 

As the celebration goes on and the troupe has had its meal, more instruments make their appearance and several of the players wander from table to table entertaining guests with slight of hand. Despite the continued entertainment there is no more sign of the young oud player. 

 

It’s not long before Harry and Ed are slurring their words and nodding off in their cups, so Samandriel and Castiel help usher them to their quarters, partially supporting their weight as they stumble down the hall toward bed. Castiel, his belly full of food and wine and with the glad prospect of conversing with Gabriel again in the morning, settles onto his pallet as well, not bothering to change out of his clothes. Sleep takes him soon after.

 

He awakes in the night, his bladder crying out for relief only to find his chamber pot missing. A lone lantern on the wall provides some light to see by, but rather than root through the mess of blankets and bodies on the floor in search of one he quietly gets up, grabs his cloak, and heads toward the kitchen where he can leave through the side door enroute to the stableyard privy. He is just about to enter when a gasp stops him cold. He steps quietly into the room to have a look. 

 

At first glance the room is empty, but the light of a small lantern on the far side, where the room turns a corner and opens up into storage has him curious. Is somebody here? It isn’t good to leave a lantern burning unattended. He approaches the lantern to douse the light when, to his right, a soft giggle stops him in his tracks. He freezes, breath caught in his throat when the soft sound is followed by a man’s low, pleased, hum. He turns his head slowly to the right where one of the maids lays atop some sacks of grain, her arms around a young man, his hands roaming freely along her exposed back.

 

Her fingers comb through his short cropped hair and a hand wraps around the young man’s waist as he kisses her. They are lost in each other, unaware of Castiel’s sudden presence. He turns quickly to leave and slams into the side of a table piled high with platters, sending them cascading to the floor with an ungodly clatter, drawing the couple's attention. 

 

“Sorry!” he gasps as the couple turns toward him. He recognizes the young woman as ‘Lisa,’ one of the kitchen maids he’d worked with the morning prior, and the young man, whose lips quirk into a half smile at him, was the same young oud player he’d seen earlier the great hall. 

 

“Sorry -I… I mean - I was just looking for uhh-” Castiel looks around frantically seizing the first thing he sees left on the table. “Oh- here it is!” He holds aloft the implement and gives quick nod. 

 

Lisa’s eyes widen in mirth. She snorts and, unbothered, pulls the young man back into a kiss. 

 

Heat flares in Castiel’s cheeks, and he flees from the kitchen. He doesn’t stop until he’s safe, back in his room, heart pounding. Only then does he notice the death grip he’s got on something in his hand.

He raises the item to the dim lantern light only to die a little inside when he sees he’s grabbed a large iron skimmer, the kind used to skim foam from broth. 

 

He stumbles over Samandriel’s outstretched legs, then drops down to sit on his own pallet putting the skimmer aside. Closing his eyes he covers his face with his hands. Idiot, he thinks as he shakes his head, then draws his hands over his burning face. He pulls off his boots and lays down, dragging the covers up to warm himself. To his right, Ed’s ass lets out an obscene fart as he shifts, yells something like ‘It’s my chicken!’ then rolls – arm flopping over Castiel’s face. 

 

He heaves Ed back over to his pallet, lays down again, and closes his eyes. It’s then Castiel remembers he still has to pee. 

 

“Fuck me,” he groans to the rafters. 

 

His anguished thoughts soon give way to restless dreams, a whirling combination of revels and trysts, chanting monks in dark robes, a long lost brother returned, then lost again, then returned again – holding court on a throne of mewling cats as he passes judgment on Castiel - in his hand, a large slotted spoon where a scepter should be, while looking on, a young reveler, with cropped hair and cupid’s bow lips, winks at him flashing a cocksure smile.

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Notes:

If you enjoyed this chapter please let me know in the comments! I do respond, and questions are great but I won't give away any of the good stuff to come! 😜

Chapter 3: On the Feast of Stephen

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who has commented, subscribed, and left kudos! It feels really good to know you're enjoying it so far! This is another long one! Settle in!

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The Second Day of Christmas - December 26th - 1196

Castiel awakens the next morning to the sound of angry voices on the other side of the wall. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up. Ed and Harry are still dead to the world but Samandriel is pulling on his boots. 

 

“What’s happening?” he asks, shifting his cloak and grabbing his boots as well. 

 

“No clue.” Samandriel gets up, offering his hand to Castiel, and pulls him up to stand. They step over the mess of strewn bedclothes to the door and step into the hallway by the entrance to the kitchen. 

 

Mildred isn’t there. Hester is in the kitchen berating one of the servants, who holds an empty sack in her hands. A pile of fruit and loaves of bread lay scattered on the table. Her shrill reprimands cut through the otherwise still morning like shards of broken glass.

 

“I’m sorry, m’lady.” Jo answers. Her gaze, cast to the floor plays at contrition, but her raised chin shows her conviction. “It’s always been customary for Lord Charles to give to the children who come a’goodin’ at Yule.”

 

“Rewarding beggary, is what it is! I’ll have none of it when I’m the lady of this house!”

 

Hester storms past them and down the hallway toward the main entrance to the manor house. Jo’s eyes meet Castiel’s, imploring him to do something. He nods quickly then turns with Samandriel to follow in Hester’s wake, curious as to what they will encounter at the manor steps.

 

As she approaches the great doors Hester’s steps falter. A crowd has gathered and are looking out into the courtyard. Several of the men and one or two of the ladies exchange bored glances, but many others are smiling almost fondly at whatever is beyond. As they get closer Castiel hears the voices of children singing.

 

Good Lords and Generous Ladies

While you sit by fires, warm

Remember lowly shepherds helped

A babe on Christmas morn

 

So bring us out a crust of bread

An apple or a pear

Bring us out a mouldy cheese,

Whatever ye can spare

 

Castiel squeezes into the crowd of bodies, maneuvering himself to see over the shoulder of one of the house guests, probably some half-uncle twice removed, or something. In the courtyard stands a choir of a dozen or more children  – urchins, all. With chapped lips and cheeks ruddy with cold, they smile up at the gathered peerage. The children stand in two rows as they sing – taller ones in back, smaller in front. The oldest must be no more than eight or nine years old, and the youngest is a mere toddler, perched on the hip of the young man who gathered them all together to sing in exchange for a few crusts of bread. 

 

Castiel’s breath catches at the sight of him, the young oud player, the apparent ringleader of this nefarious band of beggars, his light brown hair flecked with gold in the morning light and eyes, green and mirthful, like the forest beyond. He’s on one knee at the end of the front line of children, smiling as he too sings, encouraging the little girl  on his hip who alternates between smiling at the gathered assembly and bashfully hiding her face in the young man’s tunic.

 

The assembly applauds, women tittering as they clap and smile. Castiel sees Hester, her eyes livid but plastering a false smile on her face as the woman next to her comments on how adorable the children are. Castiel bites his lip  and ducks his gaze to hide a smile. 

 

“Ready?” He hears the young man ask quietly as he looks to the little choir, encouraging and reassuring them, “Just like we practiced.”

 

They nod to him as he starts them in another song.

 

May the Master of the house be blessed 

His children safe and strong

His table full and fires warm

His cattle fat, yearlong

 

May blessings fall upon this house

And all its servants too

May Christ our Lord keep you in health 

And bring good Yule to you

 

May your vineyard never wither

Your apple barrels overflow

May you never want for shelter

And your grain, abundant, grow

 

Good masters and good mistresses

Remember us, we pray

God bless what ye can spare for us

On this St. Stephen’s Day.

 

Castiel smiles. The older children are better at remembering the words – the youngest looking up to the others for guidance, a word or two behind, but somehow, he has gotten them to harmonize. When did he have the time?

 

His gaze drifts back to the young man who is dipping his head to catch the eyes of the little girl in his arms, smiling to encourage her song. The man looks up locking eyes with Castiel as he sings. This time his smile is not smug or cocky. It’s sweet and warm like the first gentle rays of the sun in springtime. For a moment, Castiel forgets to breathe. Something in his heart shifts – some seed lodged deep within his chest cracks open, a tendril aching for the light. He’s frozen in place until the young man frees him, his gaze moving on and breaking the spell. 

 

Castiel looks over the rows of children again. Their clothing is ragged, their limbs thin with hunger, and immediately he wishes he’d thought to bring some of the food from the kitchen with him. This is, after all, still his father’s house. Hester might be set to be the next lady of the manor, but until that happens, in the absence of Michael, who Castiel marks is nowhere to be seen at the moment, he still has some sway over his father’s estate. Jo is right. As hard a man as his father could be at times, he’d always kept Yule well, and giving a small morsel of food to the children who come begging is common during the season. 

 

The children finish their song. 

 

“Lords and ladies, the finest choir in all the shire, and not a farthing spent on lessons!” the young man declares and the assembly claps. The children break out in bright gap-toothed smiles, some bouncing on their toes with the joy of his praise.

 

Hester, now in the presence of a larger audience, feigns another smile of her own to the guests, ordering a passing servant to go back to the kitchen to gather something for the children. With a clipped voice she praises their singing, wishes them a ‘Good Yule,’ and turns away. A moment later the servant is back with the sack of the fruit and bread that Hester had earlier tried to deny them. 

 

When all of the children have been given at least some morsel of food the servant tries handing a piece of fruit to the young musician, but he waves her off, pointing instead to a young girl who already has an apple in hand, but whose spindly arms suggest she hasn’t eaten well in some time.

 

When all the food is distributed the young man praises the children for their efforts and congratulates them on a job well done. He stands, setting the toddler down and one of the older boys, her brother likely, takes her hand.  

 

“Dean! Dean!” several of the children cry out, their arms lifted, begging to be picked up next by the handsome young man. He obliges, spinning a few till they’re squealing with laughter. 

 

“All right!” he declares setting another child down. “You were brilliant, all of you! Now home you go! Show your parents what you’ve earned. And a good Yule to you all!” 

 

The children line up to hug him goodbye, each saying “God giv’ee good Yule, Dean!” or some of the littler ones “Gud’ule Dean!” in turn. He reaches down to tousle the hair of one or two of the older boys who fancy themselves too big for hugs. They beam up at him with warm smiles anyway before running off with their small bounties. The young man… Dean, watches them go, then turns with a satisfied smile of his own, back toward the manor steps. 

 

Everyone except Castiel and Samandriel have lost interest and wandered off. The musician tips his brow, a gesture of respect to them both, then turns and is on his way across the courtyard, perhaps to join the rest of his troupe.

Samandriel claps Castiel on the shoulder, saying something about finding food for himself and wandering off. Castiel is still looking out over the courtyard, a single word, a name, at the edge of his lips. 

 

Dean.

 

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“Hey!”

 

Castiel jolts to attention and turns toward the sound of his brother’s voice. 

 

“What are you doing? What are you staring at?” Michael asks, looking suspiciously out the doorway into the courtyard.

 

Castiel glances nervously back outside, but Dean has disappeared into one of the outbuildings. 

 

“Nothing,” he shrugs. 

 

“Have you seen the Lady Hester? Bartholomew says she needed to see me. Urgent business or something.”

 

He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by Hester’s sudden arrival. 

 

“There you are, My Lord!” she calls, her face pinched, stride purposeful as she approaches. “Things are bad enough with your brother running around playing at this ‘lord of mischief’ or whatever he is! You need to do something about that gutterborn vagabond!”

 

“What are you talking about,” Michael sighs. 

 

“The minstrel boy. The one with the oud! A malapert he is! Too pretty for his own good and twice as brazen! Thinks he can charm his way to extra food than he’s earned and stir up the villagers against us!”

 

“Hester I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Do you know about this?” he asks Castiel.

 

“It was just the children sing–”

 

“Roused them here to extort us, he did. Give them food from our table or they’d bring a curse down on us.”

 

“That’s not what happened!” Castiel cut in. “It’s Saint Stephen’s Day.” He looked accusingly at Hester. “I don’t know what the custom is where you’re from, but our father always gave out food to the children who came to sing at our steps on St Stephen’s, and they wished a blessing on us.”

 

“Vinyards withered? Wanting for shelter?”

 

“That’s not what they – ”

 

“I know what they said! They present it like a blessing, but all the while they dangle the opposite! Lord forbid you turn them away and disaster will strike!” Hester’s eyes are wild with anger. 

 

“Hester,” Michael says calmly. “He’s right. My father always honored the custom of giving bread to the beggars at Yule.”

 

“They weren’t begging though, were they?” She looks pointedly at Castiel. “They come like little angels, singing poisoned words – words he taught them to say.” She jerks her finger toward the great doors of the manor where Dean and Crowley are just entering from the cold. 

 

Dean pauses cautiously, looking their way as from a distance Hester points and heaps blame on him. 

 

“He’ll have those peasants thinking they’re owed something! And when I chastened the servant for bringing out food that boy kept on anyway! Bade them keep singing even after I forbade the servant to give to them, and by the time I’d gotten back he’d gathered our own household guests against me.” 

 

“If that’s true he did us all a favor!” Castiel counters. “It’s bad luck to turn beggars away on the feast of St Stephen. Everyone knows that!”

 

“Did ‘us’ a favor?” Hester steps forward, sticking a finger in Castiel’s chest. “Who is ‘Us?’ You’re not the master here, nor will you ever be. God knows there’s enough disgrace in this house already and as soon as my husband is master here that will change”

 

Castiel swallows, but it sticks in his throat as she looks at him, like he’s some filthy thing she can’t wait to scrape off the bottom of her shoe.

 

“There is no ‘us!’”

 

“Hester!” 

 

Castiel’s eyes slip to the torchlight behind her as Michael’s voice threatens from a thousand miles away. “Keep your voice down woman!”

 

The flames cast shadows, twisting like serpents in the dark of the corridor.

 

He doesn’t belong here. 

But it’s his only real home.

He doesn’t belong here. 

He doesn’t belong.

He doesn’t.

Not here.

Not anywhere. 

 

There’s a warm weight on his shoulder. 

 

Somewhere, someone is saying his name.

 

Michael.

 

Michael’s hand.

 

‘Castiel!’

 

Michael is saying his name.

 

“Castiel, what’s the matter with you?”

 

He focuses on his brother, whose hand is still on Castiel’s shoulder, brows drawn in a look somewhere between concern and irritation. 

 

Before Castiel can respond screams and shouts echo down the hallway and they’re running –all three of them running toward the screams – Michael and Hester running with him toward the kitchen. 

 

“God save us! God save us!” Ed is shouting in the hallway, pointing into the room they’d shared.

 

Mildred is standing at the threshold of the kitchen, her face white. Two of the kitchen servants, Lisa and Jo stand nearest her, a look of terror on both their faces, while a few others gather behind them, straining their necks for a view of the scene unfolding in the corridor.

 

“What the hell is going on!” Michael booms as the three of them arrive.

 

Ed points into the room. “He’s got the pox! He’s got the POX! Oh God!”

 

Hester turns to Michael, frantic! “YOU SEE? You see I told you something like this would happen!”

 

A crowd of onlookers has gathered at the end of the corridor, to see what the commotion is. Among them, Crowley and Dean.

 

“YOU!” Hester screams. “You brought this on! You bedeviled us!” She rushes toward the young man. Crowley steps in front to shield him. 

 

“Let’s all calm down,” he suggests, hands raised. 

 

Harry is crying hysterically inside the room. “I DON’T WANT TO DIE!” He’s pacing back and forth, hands pulling at his own hair. “OH GOD! I HAVEN’T EVEN HAD A WOMAN YET!”

 

Castiel and Michael cautiously peer around the open door, keeping what distance they can. Samandriel is inside the room, back flattened against the hearth wall, wide-eyed, a hand covering his mouth and nose, apparently afraid to move lest he get closer to Harry, whose face is covered in large red spots. 

 

“God’s teeth!” Michael gasps, making the sign of the cross. 

 

Harry steps toward the door, desperate for help.

 

“OH GOD! IT’S IN THE AIR!” Ed screams. “I CAN SMELL IT! I SMELL DEATH! OH GOD HARRY – I CAN SMELL YOUR FLESH ROTTING!” Ed rushes away from the room and toward the kitchen. 

 

“Get away from me! You’ll have it too!” Mildred cries, thwacking him with her apron as Lisa ducks behind him and rushes over to Dean, clutching him for protection or comfort.

 

“Help!” Harry surges toward the chamber door and everyone in the hall, Castiel included, gasps and jumps backward looking in horror at the red pock marks covering the right side of Harry’s face. “You have to help me!” He looks pointedly at Castiel, then Ed and back. “If I have it you’ll have it too!”

 

“Shit!” Michael backs away from Castiel as if he’s poison. “Stay there!” He orders Harry. “Both of you! Get in the room!” he commands looking between Ed and Castiel.

 

“What?” Castiel’s head snaps to him, wide-eyed. 

 

“Now!” Michael orders with a flick of his hand. Ed blinks in shock at Michael's determined expression, before taking a hesitant step back inside.

 

“You’d send me in there with the pox?” Castiel’s eyes narrow on his elder brother but Michael's harsh look is unyeilding.

"You'll contaminate us all!"

He's right.

Castiel knows he's right.

Still, he searches Michael's eyes for some sign of brotherly concern, but finds none. 

Castiel turns his head to survey the darkened overstuffed room and swallows. Samandriel is still plastered to the wall. Ed stands stiffly just inside the threshold like a man awaiting execution. Harry sobs, looking over his arms and hands for more signs of the pox.

“Fine,” Castiel murmers, nodding to himself. Then louder, firmer—“Fine!”
He throws Michael a steely look and draws a breath like it might be his last.

“Wait!” his brother blurts suddenly, hand jerking up.

But it’s too late. Castiel has already crossed the threshold, disappearing into the stale, dim air. He exhales sharply, casting one last glance behind him.

Michael stares back at him, lips parted. His eyes flicker with uncertainty and...worry? The onlookers in the hall beside him are silent. It's as if everyone is waiting for a body to drop - for the plague to make itself known. 

Then the smell hits.

 

“Oh, god!” Castiel immediately covers his mouth and nose, gagging as the stench, faint in the hallway, now hits him with full force. 

 

“YOU SEE!” Ed yells! “I TOLD YOU! IT’S DEATH!”

 

“OH SHIT!! I’M ROTTING AREN’T I?” Harry cries looking over his arms, pulling up his shirt as if checking for necrosis. 

 

“Wait!” Castiel chokes, then gags. The smell combined with the terrified shouts of everyone from the room to the corridor is disorienting. 

 

“EVERYONE SHUT UP A MINUTE!” he shouts finally, surprised when he actually gains their attention and silence. “You’re not rotting, okay?”

 

“I–I’m not?” Harry stammers, confused.

 

“It’s your ass, Harry!!” 

 

“What?” Harry squints.

 

“I don’t know what you ate last night, but your– your wind  – it’s rancid! It has been all night!”

 

Harry, looks incredulously at Castiel, then sucks a huge breath of air through his nose. He shakes his head, “I…I don’t smell it.”

 

Samandriel relaxes a touch from where he was pinned to the wall. His brow furrows as he eyes something on the floor. “Hey!” he calls out, bending down to pick it up. “Look at this!”

 

Harry turns. Ed peers cautiously into the room, even Michael and Mildred take a step forward to get a better look as Samandriel holds up the black metal skimmer. 

 

The skimmer – black, iron, and….. No! 

 

Castiel feels the blood drain from his face.

 

Samandriel steps toward Harry, holding the skimmer up to his face – its holes lining up perfectly with Harry’s large red ‘pock marks.’ He pulls it back, then holds it close again for good measure.

 

“Congratulations, Harry,” Samandriel says, “You slept with a spoon.”

 

“What?” Harry asks, looking back and forth from Samandriel to Castiel. “I don’t understand.” He’s pulling up his tunic, searching for more spots. “I don’t have the pox?”

 

“Jesus Christ!” Michael’s voice booms. “Who the hell put that in there?” 

 

Castiel should be thankful. 

 

He should be relieved. 

 

Nobody’s going to die.

 

But as he thinks of the terrified guests  – half the household it would seem – watching the developments from the far end of the corridor, he somehow thinks this might be a fate worse than death.

 

Mildred, hand to her nose, steps forward peering into the room. “What in heaven! That’s my skimmer! I’ve been looking for that all morning. Which one of you took it!”

 

A young woman’s peal of laughter turns their attention to the corridor. Lisa doubles over clutching at Dean as she looks and points directly at Castiel. “Oh God!” She chortles, tears in her eyes. “He took it to bed with him! Cuddled up with it and everything!” 

 

Castiel curses under his breath and presses his hands up and down tiredly over his face. All this after he’d tried to spare her…them…himself –whatever! All this after he’d just tried to spare Lisa and De – that minstrel boy – some kind of embarrassment or shame.

 

There’s murmuring in the hallway, growing louder now as more people pass the doorway and gawk and  – he …he can’t…He can’t!…. He can’t stay here! Not here in front of all of these– 

 

Mildred looks worried. Michael is looking at him like he’s some kind of freak. 

 

The family disappointment. He feels it on his shoulders, pressing him down.

 

Castiel’s fists clench at his side. His jaw tightens.

 

Fine!

 

He shakes his head. He needs to get away. Needs air! He glares at Michael, who just threw him to the dogs as far as Castiel is concerned, and storms out of the room.

 

Lisa is still laughing standing in the narrow corridor with Dean whose brow is pinched, jaw hanging open as he stares at Castiel. 

 

Of course. 

 

“Move!” he growls, and Dean pulls Lisa aside to let him pass. 

 

His face is hot. The cold air that hits him as he bolts out the door to the courtyard is a shock. It’s at least crisp out here. He needs to get away. Just get away so he can breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Just breathe and keep walking.

 

The air is cleaner out here. 

 

Juniper and snow.

Castiel’s head hurts. He doesn’t dare let himself think. Doesn’t even realize where he’s walking to until he sees it in the distance. The old stone and timber cottage. More of a shed than a cottage, and now, more of a ruin than a shed. 

 

He’s rooted in place in the quiet of the snowdrifted forest, his breath – a puff of frost. Breaking the stillness, a swallow flits from branch to branch with a piece of straw, settling in the eaves of the old ruin. It’s joined by another, building a nest. Swallows where the nightingales once sang. They chirrup and fly off together. 

The wind bites and he realizes he’s forgotten his cloak. He blows on his hands to warm them. He can’t stay out here – but in there…to them, he’s an issue, waiting to be managed, a line on his father’s ledger to be checked off and accounted for. Out here he’s his own man. 

Castiel closes his eyes.

The crunch of boots on snow behind him makes him turn.

“Hey there little brother,” Gabriel says. He’s left his patchwork cloak behind for a more common brown one – more ‘ Gabriel’ than ‘Lord of Misrule’ at the moment, Castiel notes. “What’s this I hear about you doing some heavy spooning last night?”

 

“Very funny.”

 

“Hey!” Gabriel raises his palms as he approaches. “I’m not gonna judge you. I just saw this sweet little mortar and pestle I’d love to pound.”

 

Castiel crosses his arms – glares, his lips pressed into a hard line. Maybe too hard. From the glint in his eye, Gabriel seems to notice.

 

“I just need to know…the skimmer,” he went on, tilting his head like he was thinking it over, “was it love at first stir? Or did you have to whisk her off her feet?”

 

He couldn’t control it — the twitch. Barely there, the corner of Castiel's mouth threatening to rise before he pressed it back down. But Gabriel caught it, and that was all it took.

 

“Yeah! There it is!” his brother smirks, pointing at Castiel’s face like he’s struck gold. 

 

Castiel hates that he can’t hold back the toothy grin. “Fuck you, Gabriel,” he says, shoving him. Gabriel laughs and throws a snowball at him. Castiel ducks from it, grabs a fist full of snow, pulls at Gabriel’s shirt and shoves it against his skin. His brother howls vowing vengeance, but calls for a temporary truce. 

 

“All jokes aside,” Gabriel levels Castiel with a serious look, “the old man wants to see you now.”

 

He sighs. Nods. Then follows Gabriel back to the manor. 

 

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Castiel knocks on the doorframe. 

 

“Castiel. Come here, son,” his father calls from inside the dimly lit bedroom, beckoning him with a hand. He’s propped up with into a seated position in the bed with pillows. Michael stands stoically at his side. A scribe sits at a writing desk in the corner of the room, scratching away at something. An array of parchments and indeed, a ledger, strewn about him. A fire blazes in the hearth to counter the cold from the opened shutter. Lord Charles always prefers the fresh air and daylight, even in winter, and right now Castiel is glad of it. 

 

He comes to his father’s bedside, unsure of how to greet him. It’s been so long since they’ve spent any real time together. He opts for taking a knee by his father, brushing his lips over his outstretched hand before standing again. Lord Charles seems satisfied. 

 

“Do you know why I’ve summoned you home?”

 

“You’re dying,” Castiel says softly.

 

“To settle your future, Castiel,” Charles looks at him pointedly.

 

Castiel’s neck prickles, he’d been expecting his father to enquire about his progress toward knighthood. “What exactly does that mean, Father?”

 

Lord Charles tips his head back, studying Castiel for a moment. 

 

“Lord Uriel has informed me he doesn’t think you’re cut out for knighthood.”

 

It’s a punch to the gut. Castiel narrows his eyes, careful not to let them rise to his father's. He crosses his arms and focuses on the patterned bedclothes. “I don’t know how Lord Uriel would be able to come to that conclusion, Sir, considering he’s never once bothered to train me or appoint someone else to do so. Despite whatever he’s told you I’ve made use of my time learning whatever I can of value in the absence of official training.” He raises his chin, meeting his father’s eyes squarely. “I haven’t been idle.”

 

“Easy, Castiel,” Charles shakes his head slightly and puts a hand up to calm him.”I’m sure you haven’t my son.” Charles pauses, regret in his smile, his eyes full of some memory. “Come my child,” Lord Charles beckons him closer with a wave of his fingers. “Please come.”

 

Castiel steps forward, kneeling once again at the side of his father’s bed. 

 

Lord Charles sifts his fingers through his son’s hair. It’s more affection than Castiel has known from his father in years.

 

“I know how diligent and persistent you must have been. Your mother was the same in everything she attempted. I see her in you.” 

 

The praise is unexpected. Castiel’s throat feels thick with it as he swallows. He was a child the last time he felt the warmth of his father’s approval. He falls into it now, like an embrace.

 

Lord Charles sighs, focusing on the fire. “Looking back now, I realize there are some things I’ve done, that I wish I had not. And things left undone that should have been done.” He shifts his gaze again, sparing Castiel a tender look. Lord Charles holds out his hand, palm open, and Castiel grasps it. His father’s fingers feel weak and small in his own warm, strong hands, a reversal of his youth. 

 

“I’ve made my share of mistakes, my son. I see that now. But now, with you here, I finally have the chance at least to make some small amends for all my shortcomings in this life. Can you understand my need to do that?”

 

Castiel gives his father’s hand a gentle squeeze. It won’t change the past – it won’t make up for the time they’ve lost. Nothing can. But it soothes a little wound inside Castiel to know his father has regrets about their parting. His throat is tight. He doesn’t trust his own voice – even so, “Yes, Sir,” he nods.

 

“Good,” Lord Charles whispers, patting Castiel’s hands and pressing his lips together in a fatherly smile. He turns and beckons to the scribe who rises, handing Lord Charles a letter. “In accordance,” he speaks more loudly now, gathering strength, “I’ve provided a large endowment to the Priory of Saint Cuthbert and made arrangements for you to take orders there. This letter confirms their acceptance of the arrangement and welcomes you into the service of God and the Benedictine order.”

 

For a moment there is only the crackle of the fire. Castiel’s eyes flick to the parchment held aloft in Charles' hand as the words sink in.

 

“Well, what say you, my son?” Charles asks, handing the letter back to his scribe. 

 

Cas’s eyes widened, his lips falling open, but no words came. 

 

Orders? 

 

He searches his father’s face for some telltale glimmer. Did Gabriel enlist him for this?

 

“What? .......You’re joking right?”

 

Lord Charles’ sentimental smile shifts to mild annoyance. “When someone provides you with a future I would expect you to welcome such news. Your Aunt Amara tells me your gentle nature is more suited to a life of contemplation than one of battle.”

 

Castiel realizes his education and preparation to become a knight is sorely lacking, but he never expected his father to send him into a monastery. 

 

“I–” he stutters. This can’t be happening. “My lord, I have no calling for the monastery!” 

 

“Since when has that mattered? Your brother is a priest and doing quite well for himself now in Rome, and if you asked him in his youth if he were called to the cloth he’d have said ‘no.’ As part of this family we, each of us, have our roles to play,” Charles cuts in. “As my son, I would expect no less than that you devote your life in contemplation and prayer for the good of our family and for our souls. In the chapter house, your disgrace will not matter, as all are equals when they wear the robes of Christ.”

 

“My disgrace?” Castiel narrows his eyes. “Do you think I asked to be born out of wedlock? Do you think I played any sort of role in that?”

 

“Of course not!” Charles sighs. “But that is all the more reason for you to be glad of this chance. You will play a hand in turning our family’s shame into a blessing. Perhaps in time, you may ascend to prior or abbot.”

 

Castiel knew his wishes had never been at the forefront of his father’s mind but… His father wanted him to….what? Keep vigil in prayer for whatever sins Charles himself had committed? Live out his life as Charles’ and Michael’s own personal intercessor? Castiel was dumbstruck. 

 

Charles however stared at him expectantly. “Well? Are you not grateful?”

 

“I don’t understand…”

 

Lord Charles huffs, “And that is why you are only fit for prayer, Castiel. You are perpetually obtuse. It’s not so hard to understand, is it? I have set aside a substantial dowry for your care –”

 

“Dowry?” Castiel protests.

 

“Yes, dowry – or entrance fee if you prefer,” Lord Charles waves his hand dismissively as though brushing aside an annoying gnat. “And in return the priory will take you on as an oblate. When your novitiate is done you will take orders and become a monk. You will have shelter and food. You will be put to use at whatever tasks the abbot believes you fit for, and when at prayer you will play your part and do your duty to this family by focusing your devotions for its benefit.”

 

“Why me, when Luke is already a priest? How many of your children does God need to assuage your regrets?”

 

Lord Charles rolls his eyes. “Your brother, unfortunately, seems bent on using his office to pursue his own power, rather than God’s grace or absolution, and while in the long run that may help our social and political prospects it does little for our spiritual ones.”

 

Castiel stands, looking to Michael, “Was this your idea?” 

 

“CASTIEL!” Charles yells, the strength of his voice foreign in one who has, up til now, seemed so frail. 

 

Castiel’s shoulders stiffen. His eyes snap back to his father’s. 

 

“Enough!” Lord Charles regards him like a cat, grown tired of its mouse. 

 

Castiel swallows, but it’s water in his lungs. His eyes shift to the ledger. “You never had any intention of reconciling…” he whispers. “You want me to be a living, breathing, penance for you.” His eyes shift back to his father’s still hoping to see some thread of fatherly affection there, but he sees only a stranger’s impatience. The finality…it’s pulling him under – a drowning man with a chain on his leg. Still, he grasps at the reeds — looks back to his father – takes a chance.

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

Charles’ face turns scarlet. 

 

“Dammit, boy!” He slams his hand against a cup of wine near his bedside, sending it flying and making both Castiel and Michael flinch. Your duty is to obey me and follow the plans I’ve laid out for you! Let me make this clear! There is no land! There is no knighthood awaiting you. If you take up the cross like your brother you’ll likely die in the desert. This is the best offer you will get from me or anyone else. You will trust to my wisdom and obey me as my son!” 

 

A fit comes over Lord Charles, his coughs and subsequent wheezing making his eyes bulge, as he gasps for breath, but Castiel hears it as if underwater – feels it like a dream. 

 

A monastery ….the shock of it is gripping Castiel even as he watches his father flounder for breath. 

 

The sharp sucking sound of his father’s desperate bid for air finally pierces the haze. His eyes snap to Charles, and for a moment, his anger is overtaken by instinct.

 

“Father?” Castiel’s voice is uncertain, his hands twitching at his sides, unsure whether to help or stay back. But when Charles waves him off with a trembling hand, Castiel exhales shakily, the cold weight of his own despair settling back over him.

 

“When?” he asks, once his father’s fit has settled.

 

“As soon as the Epiphany is celebrated. Gabriel is returning to his manor. Saint Cuthbert’s is half a day's ride from his lands. He will deliver you there.”

 

Castiel’s flurry of thoughts was a mad storm. He felt a creeping heat rising along his neck. How could they just decide this? How could they just send him away like this without even discussing it with him? 

 

“Castiel?”

 

Castiel shook himself out of his shock long enough to meet his father’s eyes. 

 

“I know it’s a surprise at the moment, but after you’ve had time to let it sink in you will thank me. Now, go. You are dismissed.”

 

Castiel stood there speechless. He didn’t know what to think. 

 

“Castiel, I said you’re dismissed!” his father repeats, punctuating the words as if he’s a daft and tiresome child. “I have other business to attend to. Other affairs to settle,” his father adds tersely this time.

 

Castiel turns, his mind reeling, and exits his father’s chambers. He’s not even paying attention to where he’s going, his thoughts battling with each other – a dozen voices all trying to be heard at once. The voice of the dutiful son beating down the voice of his own desire, both of them straining against the sharp, scraping pull of anger clawing its way up from some dark, oppressive, oubliette inside him.

 

He finds himself at his bedroom door. The latch rattles as he pulls and pulls at the handle, but the door doesn’t budge – bolted from the inside. 

 

“Who’s there?” an irritated voice booms from within.

 

Castiel looks up from the latch and realizes where he is. In his daze, he’s let habit lead him to his old room, but it’s not his anymore. Nothing is.  

 

It’s not his room anymore. It’s not his home anymore. He’s nothing here.

 

He wanders to the stable, to seek comfort in the only thing he owns outside of the clothing on his back, which soon will be traded in for robes of course black wool.

 

This time of day Gadreel is usually here tending to the horses, but there is no sign of him. He’s likely in the goat barn. There are so many guests of import with fine war stallions that Gadreel and his stablehand have had to construct makeshift stalls there to use as overflow. Castiel passes from Gadreel’s quarters to the line of stalls. 

 

There's the soft voice of someone speaking gently, probably the stablehand, and Gwenhwyfar nickers up ahead. Castiel smiles. His sweet horse is like a person in that way – responding to gentle questions and conversation, as if she could understand every word. As he gets closer, the soft murmurs become discernable.

 

“You’re a sweet one, aren’t you? Sammy’s gonna love you so much,” the voice says. Castiel’s brow furrows, he approaches cautiously, wanting to hear more. 

 

“We’re always on the move, but you won’t mind that so much I’ll bet, huh? You can see the world with us. You don’t need to worry. I’m good with horses. I’m gonna take such good care of you. It’ll be like we’re family.”

 

Castiel steps silently closer. It’s him again. The oud player. Dean. He seems to be at the center of everything. 

 

Castiel steps forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you planning on stealing my horse?” he challenges. stepping forward and into the line of Dean’s sight. 

 

He’d been brushing her mane. He turns to look at Castiel but says nothing. His brow furrows, lowering the hand with the brush, the other rests on her long neck as if he’s staking a claim. “Your horse?” Dean shakes his head, “You must be mistaken, my lord,” Dean replies, but there’s no deference in his manner. “This horse was given to us as part of the payment for our entertainment here.”

 

“No, you’re the only one who’s mistaken,” Castiel growls stepping into Dean’s space. His eyes flick to the oud player's hand where it perches on her neck and sees it – a green ribbon woven into her sleek mane. Like it belongs there. 

 

It doesn’t! It doesn’t! She’s his! She’s all he has!

 

That voice… that thing from the oubliette is clawing at him, clawing at his chest – curling his hands into fists – screaming for him to ‘Do something!’ He wants to tear at something…someone…anyone…he wants to tear the young oud player apart. Gwenhwyfar exhales abruptly, shimmying in her stall. 

 

“You’re making her nervous,” Dean accuses.

 

“I’m making her nervous?” he replies, insensed, raising his voice. “You’re the stranger threatening to steal her away! Get away from her now, and stay away! I should have you hanged!” Gwenhwyfar is squealing in distress now. “Get out before I have you flogged!” Castiel demands, pointing to the main door.

 

Dean is wide-eyed, backing up slowly, his arms raised in a gesture meant to calm. It only enrages Castiel more. The stubborn bastard! Why won’t he just leave it!

 

“I’m sorry my lord,” Dean dips his head backing away. “I’m sure there’s just been some misunderstanding.”

 

“Yes, and you’re the one who’s made it!” he glares.

 

“Master Castiel,” a gentle voice calls out from behind him. Gadreel. There’s a pity in his tone that sends foreboding down Castiel’s spine. No, Castiel thinks – No it’s not true! He’s shaking his head as he turns, willing Gadreel to tell him it isn’t so. 

 

Gadreel, stands there, dumbstruck, but his eyes say everything there is to say.

 

There’s a feeling in Castiel’s throat like a noose tightening while he waits for the man to say something.

 

Gadreel opens his mouth, eyes flicking to Dean then Castiel again. He sighs and shakes his head, “I’m afraid it’s true, young master,” he says softly, eyes pained. “When I’d heard it from the man, Crowley, I didn’t believe it myself, so I went to see your father straight away. He was having a spell of dizziness and nausea, so I couldn’t gain an audience, but your brother Michael confirmed it. Your jennet has been promised to the troupe upon their completion of the revels. 

 

“No,” Castiel whispers. His chest is tight. He might be choking. “No, she’s mine! ...She’s all I have left!”

 

He stands there frozen in place, Dean and Gadreel looking on as if they’re watching his mind unravel  – the making of a madman. And maybe they were. 

 

Finally, he finds his voice again and turns to Dean. “You don’t touch her! Don’t lay a finger on her!” he growls. “And you!” He whirls to Gadreel and falters. Gadreel doesn’t deserve Castiel’s venom, but anger is all that’s holding him together at the moment. He presses his eyes shut, and when he opens them he softens his tone – though now the words catch in his throat. “She goes nowhere. Not with anyone but me! I’m going to set this right!” 

 

Castiel storms out of the stable. The time for propriety was over. If his father won’t give him an audience he’ll take one. 

 

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He pounds on the door as if all hell has broken loose, then pounds again. Michael opens it a crack and Castiel pushes past him into the room to stare down at the man in the bed. 

 

“You gave away my horse?” 

Lord Charles pushes himself up with great effort. Michael goes to his side to assist but his father bats him away and comes to a seated position by himself. “What the devil’s gotten into you barging your way in here like this!”

 

“Answer me!” Castiel demands, unyielding, nails biting into the palms of his hands.

 

“Who do you think you are, to question me like this?” Charles bites back, eyes blazing, every bit the force of a man he once was. “You forget yourself! 

 

Castiel’s voice is the harsh scrape of gravel over stone. “Did you or did you not trade away my horse in exchange for your revels?” He spits out the word like bile on his tongue, like a parent shaming a wastrel child for his folly. 

 

“Castiel! That’s enough, you little shit!” Michael hisses moving toward him, “Get out!” he yells, finger stabbing toward the door.

 

But Castiel doesn’t flinch. There’s nothing Michael can do to him now. His eyes are fixed on his father…the drawn bow of an archer ready to loose. 

 

“Not until he answers me!” Gwenhwyfar was a gift, the only thing his father ever saw fit to give him. He wants an answer. He’s owed this.

 

Lord Charles’ harsh stare of anger might have burned through Castiel before, but his body already seethes like molten steel. Then, a minute shift, bewilderment crinkles between his father’s narrowed eyes, he turns a questioning look on Michael, then back to Castiel, the anger gone, confusion in its place. “I didn’t trade away your horse, Castiel. Who told you that?”

 

It’s Castiel’s turn to look bewildered, just a moment before the realization clicks. He turns to regard Michael, “Funny thing. It seems that Michael told the troupe that Gwenhwyfar was to be given in trade as part of the payment for their services. Gadreel confirmed it. He said it was your doing.”

 

“Our father has entrusted me to manage the estate while he’s unwell. It’s perfectly proper for me to arrange payment for the revelers.”

 

“But not with my horse! She’s NOT part of this estate!”

 

“Oh please!” Michael rolls his eyes, turning away with a wave of his hand to sink down in the chair by his father’s bedside. “In two weeks you’ll be married off to Christ. You can’t take a horse with you.” He turns now to address his father, who’s been watching the back and forth between his sons with great interest. “It’s an elderly mare. Not worth the feed we’d need to spare for it. This is the right choice.”

 

“It’s a choice you don’t get to make!” Castiel bites back taking a step toward his brother.

 

Michael stands opening his mouth to respond – 

 

“He’s right,” Lord Charles announces, his voice cutting the air, stopping them both cold.

 

Their attentions snap back to their father. Castiel stays braced but relaxes his stance minutely. Lord Charles assesses him, as he addresses his brother Michael. “Make other arrangements with Crowley. Your brother’s horse is his and his alone to deal with.”

 

Castiel is speechless, his eyes locked on his father’s. Lord Charles regards him, eyes narrowing like he’s seeing something he’d missed before. A glint of something unfamiliar – like he’s looking at Castiel for the first time. 

 

“Have I made myself clear?” he snaps suddenly, jerking his head to regard Michael.

 

“Yes, father,” Michael dips his head obediently, sounding perfectly unbothered.

 

“Castiel, you have your horse,” Lord Charles affirms. “Are you satisfied?”

 

His brow furrows, “Yes, Father.”

 

“Good. Then no more disturbances,” Lord Charles announces, dismissing them. He shifts in his bed to lay back down. “Leave me, both of you, so that I can rest up for tonight’s revels. After all, I’m apparently paying a great deal for them,” he huffs. “I should get my coin’s worth.”

 

Michael strides out of the room, his jaw tight, he pauses by Castiel, casting a side-eyed glare at him. “Two weeks,” he says menacing and low. The right side of his mouth lifts cruelly. “Who knows, if the Lord is as fond of pretty boys as you are, perhaps you’ll get on well together.”

 

Castiel stiffens but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He won this bout and aside from his horse, Michael’s humiliation is enough. He lingers just a moment longer, releasing a breath. “Thank you, Father,” he adds, almost under his breath, before slipping from the room. 

 

Just outside the doorway Gabriel leans against the wall waggling his eyebrows, a lopsided grin on his face. “I was passing by and heard the ruckus. Haven’t seen Michael so apoplectic since I put fish guts in his boots when we were kids. I knew you had it in ya, kiddo,” he lifts his chin in a kind of salute and heads down the corridor to his room whistling as he goes.

 

Castiel, heart still pounding from the ordeal, watches him blankly for a moment, before turning and heading down the stairs, through the corridor to the entryway, then back out into the cold. He adjusts the clasp on his fur-lined cloak as he strides to the stables. He wastes no time talking, just saddles his horse, adjusting her bridle and reigns, and rides out. 

 

He rides.

 

And rides…. loosening the reigns to let Gwenhwyfar decide the pace, and she gallops… Castiel lets his body go loose, and be carried by her, and it feels like he has wings. She flies over the snow-drifted path, not with urgency, but with joy, and Castiel wonders what it would feel like to not turn back…to just keep riding…

 

In time she slows. He’s folding forward, bringing his hands across her mane. He jumps down as she comes to a halt and buries his face in her neck, patting and stroking her grey dappled coat – and for the first time since he was sent away from his home all those years ago, Castiel cries.

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It’s late and dark outside when he finally slips back into the manor. He hasn’t eaten, but has little appetite. He’ll snatch some fruit or nuts from the kitchen before bed if he changes his mind. There’s a great deal of noise and laughter coming from the Great Hall. He’s bound for his rooms, the isolation in him would only sharpen in the midst of so much laughter and belonging. Still, he pauses, leaning against the threshold as he passes to observe. Near the head of the hall, where the high table usually stands, the players have set up a makeshift stage – long rolls of painted fabric hang like curtains, creating the illusion of the inside of a lady’s chamber on one side, and green fields of sheep on the other. 

 

The players seem to be acting out a tale of love and deception. A lady, is being courted by a buffoonish-looking old man, her father’s apparent choice of husband. The lady’s true love is a shepherd boy, with no money to his name but wit enough to pay his way through the world. The shepherd convinces an old court jester that the suitor is rich and desperate for a fool to serve at his court, only he has very strange requirements. The fool must be able to follow the man around and successfully mock him throughout the day to show his talents. And so the bloated old suitor is followed around and mocked by the fool, who the suitor believes is trying to steal his lady’s affections. At the climax the old suitor chases the jester around the hall, jumping on tables and hiding behind audience members, much to the delight of all the guests who are wailing and howling with gut-bursting laughter. In the shadows by the threshold, even Castiel finds himself cracking a small smile.

 

The suitor and fool chase each other out a side door. In the stillness that remains, the audience is left to focus on the handsome young shepherd as he climbs through his lady’s window. She pulls him close and he smiles, declaring his love for her, his hand coming to cup her cheek. He tilts his head, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. It’s soft and tender. He guides her to the window and they make their escape to some far-off place where penniless shepherds and resourceful ladies can make a life out of cleverness and love. 

 

The play is at an end. Castiel realizes he’s been standing at the threshold for the duration of it, enraptured by the talent and humor of the little troupe. They all stand together now on the stage, Suitor, Jester, Father, Lady, and Shepherd. Hands joined they take a bow and rise, then another. Castiel watches as they take a third bow when the shepherd boy straightens and locks eyes with him for a moment. Dean….of course, it’s Dean. 

 

He steps back into the shadowed corridor, not ready to join the laughter and joyful atmosphere of the hall. It’s the second day of Yule, and he thinks of the candles lit the night before – it seems like forever ago. He makes his way to the chapel where the Yule candles glow. Lit from the Yule log, the flames must be maintained for twelve days, even as the individual candles are switched out. 

 

It’s dark and quiet in the chapel. He sits on the wooden bench watching the flames of the Yule candles dance, casting long shadows in the darkness. He thinks about his mother, and wonders if his fate would be different if she were still alive, but that’s a useless path to go down. There’s a reason he came here, and it’s not to torture himself with impossible “what ifs.”

 

He thinks of the wish he made on them just last night, for a home, for a place to belong….a wish he almost regrets making. 

 

“Do you know why I’ve summoned you home?....To settle your future, Castiel….You will have shelter and food….You will play your part and do your duty to this family…”

 

“Is this your answer?” he asks the flames, and his whisper seems too loud – too harsh in the vast stillness of the cool stone chapel. He lifts his head to the darkness of the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe it but it must be, because there’s no other response. No sign.  His forearms rest on his legs, fingers dangling between them as he stares tiredly at the flames.

 

The monastary. The thought of being locked away in some moorland chapter house – it’s so …. permanent. 

 

Castiel drops his face into his hands, too numb to think anymore.

 

Behind him, the wooden door groans softly as it swings open. A wisp of cold air rushes in, making the candles flicker. The faint creak of boot leather and soft footsteps come closer until the bench beneath him shifts with the weight of another.

 

Castiel glances left to see Dean looking back at him, mouth slightly parted as though considering his words. He holds a cup of hot ale in each hand and shares a tight-lipped smile as he lifts one toward Castiel. 

 

“Thought maybe with the day you had you could use this,” he says, holding out the cup. 

 

Castiel’s eyes flick up and down. “Is it poisoned?” he asks dryly, taking the cup from Dean.

 

Dean’s brows knit even as his lips lift in a smile, as if he’s not sure if Castiel is joking.

 

“I just figured after the words we had earlier you’d be happy to send me to an early demise,” Castiel mutters “Or at least give me the skitters for a week.”

 

Dean’s grin sharpens. “Not my style,” he says, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a careful sip of the steaming brew. “‘Sides…I think the household has had its fill of scares in the way of plagues, don’t you?”

 

Castiel’s lips twitch, small but there. He huffs a breath through his nose, low and warm. His gaze shifts back to the Yule candles, their flames sinuous and steady. He raises the cup slowly, lets it hover near his mouth, breathing in the scent of ginger and cloves, then takes a sip. 

 

It’s sweetened with honey and beneath the other spices the heat of pepper prickles on Castiel’s tongue, spreads through his chest, then his limbs. There’s been a cold ache in his hands since the ride. It’s soothed a bit now where his fingers wrap around the warm cup. Castiel feels his body begin to relax, and he sighs. He glances over with a small but grateful smile.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“My pleasure. Name’s Dean by the way.”

 

Castiel huffs a small laugh, doubting there’s a soul at the manor who doesn’t know Dean’s name by now.

 

“Hello, Dean,” he smiles. “I’m Castiel.”

 

Castiel lifts his cup in a small salute, which Dean returns. They go back to sipping their ale in a quiet companionship. 

Dean lingers there with him. Not saying anything. Just... there.

 

There’s a shift of movement behind them, the sounds of the party in the Great Hall floating in and then receding as the door to the chapel is opened then closed. Castiel’s eyes flick toward the doorway just as a familiar figure steps into the chapel. Crowley. 

 

The revel master approaches, purposeful and silent. His gaze passes briefly over Castiel and he gives a quick nod of respect before leaning down to speak in Dean’s ear. 

 

“Private performance,” Crowley mutters softly, his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Castiel barely catches it. 

 

Crowley straightens. Dean's face remains unreadable. He tilts his head back slightly as if considering something. He doesn’t look up at Crowley, but gives a slight nod, which the revel master seems to understand. Crowley makes a silent retreat and slips back into the hall.

 

Whatever just passed between them, there’s no rush, no reaction. Dean takes another sip of his ale, eyes drifting to the flames of the Yule candles, and for a moment Castiel wonders what Dean sees there. Somehow, the quiet of the chapel has grown heavier.

 

“Alright…” Dean says at last, voice quieter than before. “See you then.” He taps his knuckles lightly on the bench as he stands.

 

Castiel feels, rather than sees, him go. He raises his cup to his lips and drains it. 

 

Dean’s footsteps are steady in the silence as he leaves. 

 

The only warmth in the chapel goes with him.

Notes:

I’d love to know your thoughts, hopes, predictions, and anything else you’d like to share if you enjoyed this chapter / story so far! Leave a comment if you like or subscribe for automatic updates!

The children’s songs are variations (tampered with by me) of a variety of traditional wassailing and similar folk verses and in part inspired by Sting’s “Soulcake” which I imagine is also derived from similar inspirations.

Also - since I’m that annoying person who rolls her eyes when a man in an 1815 period drama is wearing an 1850s era waistcoat let me just confess there will be a LOT of verbal anachronisms (nonverbal as well) in this fic because A. it’s amazing how much of our modern parlance and figures of speech were affected by Shakespeare long after the 12th C, and B. while phrases like “Hold thy tongues!” or “Peace fools!” would have been more accurate and had the weight of “Everyone shut up!” in the 12th C, today they just make me giggle, and while Cas would never have said “Fuck me!” at the end of the last chapter, you hopefully know exactly how he feels in a way that “Fie upon me!” doesn’t quite convey! 😜

Chapter 4: The Third Day of Christmas - Part I - The Hunt

Notes:

Thank you again to everyone who has commented and subscribed! 🥰 I love reading your questions, hopes, and predictions for these two! Thank you also to those who have left kudos!

In this chapter Saladin will be mentioned in a negative context by a European knight, as that was the common perspective of the time, but Saladin was a hero to many defending their homes from the Crusaders and was known, even to some Europeans, for his mercy.

And once again I want to thank my amazing betas, Lexi and Sarah! And a special thanks to Paul Bettany!

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The Third Day of Christmas - December 27th - 1196

Castiel lays in bed long after the others have risen. Most of the guests will have surely taken their breakfast by now, but Castiel wants to burrow under the blankets and stay there. He’d hoped sleep would bring clarity or at least dull the ache of dread that’s settled over him since meeting with his father, but instead what little sleep he was able to get has only made everything sharper. Life as he knows it is about to change. By the time the Yule Log blazing in the Great Hall is consumed by the flames, Castiel will be packed up and sent to a new place of banishment,  – this one, much more permanent than the last.

 

Now that his father’s plans for him have been revealed he has no desire to stay here, just waiting for his freedom to end, but where could he go? 

 

At least no one is requiring his presence at the revels. Harry, Ed, and Samandriel tried to rouse him to join them in the event Gabriel planned for the day – some wild hunt – but he can’t! He can’t be around all the laughter and smiles and pretend to be okay with this – much less go on a hunt with others. The gathering will be full of family and friends of Lord Charles or Michael – people he barely knows, who are treated with more deference by his father and brother than he. 

 

Still, he can’t lay here all day in the stale air of this shambles of a storeroom they’ve shoved him in. He needs to get away from this place – perhaps to the stable a while to beg Gadreel’s forgiveness for his harsh words, and to spend time with his Gwenny. Perhaps to the forest. It’s always been his refuge.

 

Castiel forces himself from his pallet, goes to the kitchen, and asks a servant for fresh water for the basin in their room. The young man goes off in search of a pitcher, while Castiel waits. The kitchen is quiet except for the rhythmic sound of a broom as a young woman carefully shovels and sweeps yesterday’s ashes from one side of the great hearth. With each sweep of her broom, a small flurry of ash escapes from the pan and flees skyward. 

 

A ray of sunlight streams through the crack in the door to the stable yard, thick as honey. Castiel is transfixed, watching as ash and dust motes are transformed by its light from dirt into something lovely, rippling with life and energy – something almost tangible. Castiel puts a hand out to grasp the light, like some god of old who might harness its power and warmth  – hold revelation in his hands. But his fingers slip through – of course, they do – and he's reminded it's all an illusion. The ash is just ash. The dirt is just dirt. The light – ethereal – insubstantial. Something he was never meant to grasp.

 

The servant returns with a pitcher of water and a wooden bucket and follows Castiel to the storeroom to change the water in his basin. 

 

He washes himself and pulls on his overclothing and boots, then heads back to the kitchen. Past the hearth, at the far side, he finds the sacks of grain and tucks a handful of kernels into the small leather pouch at his belt. One of the kitchen cats is nursing a batch of mewling kittens on a folded blanket in the corner nearby. An orange kitten, smaller than the rest, is shouldered out by its stronger siblings and sits back, dejected. Castiel picks it up and strokes its neck. The soft kitten mewls at him and immediately begins to purr – so intensely he can feel the vibration in his fingers. Castiel chuckles, bringing the kitten close to his face. 

 

“Was worried about that one for a bit, we were,” the young servant boy says, coming to stand by Castiel’s side with a fond smile. “He’s small but he’s a scrapper.” The boy reaches out to stroke the kitten with his finger. “Has to fight for everything he gets but he’s made it past the worst of it. Mildred says it’ll make him a better mouser in the end.” 

 

Castiel places the kitten back down and sure enough, he muscles his way into the mass of small furry bodies until he finds a place to latch.

 

“Where is everyone?” Castiel asks,  his curiosity over the nearly empty kitchen getting the better of him. The bread is done, stacked on a table for use throughout the day, and several large kettles sit over the coals on one side of the hearth, while others hang over more vigorous flames on the other side.

 

“They’re all gathering for the hunt.”

 

Castiel finds that curious. Servants never take part in a hunt unless it is to drive the game toward the hunters, and that was a job for male servants, not kitchen wenches and cooks like Mildred. But then, it is the season of revels, when the normalities of society and even class distinction are thrown into the Yule fire. 

 

“I’m stuck here minding the kettles and stew while everyone else gets to go have fun. And there’ll probably never be another Yule like this if Lady Hester gets her way, once-” the boy looks up swiftly only just remembering he’s speaking of Castiel’s “family” and his father’s impending death. “Sorry m’lord.”

 

“Stop your sulking,” another servant, a woman, reprimands before Castiel can remind the boy he’s no ‘lord.’  

 

“Mildred says you’ll get your turn at the revels, just not today. She’s dying to gawk at the Frenchman and someone has to mind dinner. Lord of Misrule or no Lord of Misrule, we still have to eat and feed a household. I don’t think even Master Gabriel could order Hester and her ladies to take it on, and I doubt supper ‘d be fit to eat if they did!”

 

“Frenchman?” Castiel asks, stuck on her earlier comment. 

 

“A visitor from Aquitaine! One of Lord Gabriel’s friends. He arrived unexpectedly in the night. They say he’s a cousin of Queen Eleanor!”

 

Castiel gives them both a courteous nod and snatches an apple from a bowl of fruit before leaving the kitchen. He too is curious to see who this Frenchman is. Gabriel was gone for years on the King’s Crusade and family gossip told of his wandering through England and Normandy after he learned of his wife and eldest son’s death. Castiel is pained for his brother’s loss and wonders about those years he’s spent wandering. Curiosity and concern lead him in the direction of the Great Hall, where he can hear the rattling beats of a drum in the distance. He already has plans for the morning, but once again stands at the threshold of the Great Hall looking in – curious about this visitor. 

 

Crowley is beating a fast cadence on a drum garnering everyone’s attention as Gabriel jumps on top of a table. His patchwork cloak, colored in vibrant shades of ruby red, rich forest green, sapphire blues, and gold is back along with his holly crown. His scepter is a turnip on a stick. There are several other members of the troupe of players standing to the sides of the crowd, including the flame-haired woman, Rowena, who Castiel had met informally the day before in the courtyard. He scans the faces of the assembly for another face but Dean is noticeably absent.  Not that it should matter. 

 

A new face, it must be the heralded Frenchman, stands near Gabriel. He’s slim but strong in his bearing. His patrician features sport a bemused smile, cunning like a fox’s. Striking blue eyes, sharp as a falcon’s, survey the crowd. This is a man who’s used to being the center of attention. 

 

“My good lords,” Gabriel pauses turning and nodding to Amara, Hester, and some of the other noblewomen  “my good ladies…….And all of the folks NOT breaking their backs to feed us all!” he adds with a flourish garnering a celebratory cry from the servants and lesser relations in the assembly. “While traveling with our good King Richard, I had the privilege of fighting alongside a knight of great renown who has traveled far and wide to grace us with his presence. But alas! He is on a quest for an object of great mystical significance, and although this quest has consumed nearly a lifetime of his personal devotion –  now, when he is a hairsbreadth from seeing it completed he has graciously decided to share with us the secrets he’s spent a lifetime working to acquire, so that you too, can seek out this miraculous object and might be blessed by it.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, straight from the storied land of Aquitaine, the land of chivalry, troubadours, and ‘l’amour…” Gabriel cocks an eyebrow, letting the word hang in the air –  “ comes a knight who makes lesser knights question their manhood and holy sisters, their vocations – Dear assembly, I give you - Sir Balthazar, of the Périgord Marches!”

 

Sir Balthazar jumps up on a nearby table as the assembly enthusiastically applauds.

 

“Salutations mes braves gens!” he begins, bowing to the assembly.  “When I was but a humble squire for the valiant Sir Étienne de Montreuil, he shared with me a wondrous tale – that of an old hermit he’d once saved from the very clutches of Saladin himself!” Balthazar paused letting the murmurs of excitement ripple through the crowd a moment before continuing. 

 

“This old man had dedicated his whole life to the guarding of a secret – the knowledge of a living miracle, one that could grant whoever found it their heart’s deepest desire.” 

 

Castiel smiled to himself as he watched the reactions. Some rolled their eyes, some exchanged amused smirks, others whispered to each other in excitement. It was clear that few if any believed the story – it was all part of Gabriel’s revels after all – but the story, delivered by this charming stranger, enchanted them all the same.

 

“‘What is this miracle, that I might search for it?’ – you might ask! Well! This miracle is no ordinary relic or treasure! No crusty toenail of a saint or threadbare square of fabric from a martyr’s robe!” Balthazar shakes his head in mock disgust, then softens. He turns toward a small group of young ladies near the front – who hang on his every word, ensorcelled by the tale. His hand lifts – his eyes carry a reverence as if seeing something holy in the distance.

 

“It is a rose, whiter and purer than untouched snow, et tout aussi belle – just as beautiful. It is said that this rose first bloomed on the night of our Saviour’s birth and that only the purest of heart, the most deserving and good among us can behold it. 

 

For centuries, the miraculous rose bush was guarded by an ancient brotherhood who, to protect it from those who might seek to do it harm, carried it secretly from one place to another, over mountains, across seas, and deserts until finally it made it’s way to Damascus and was hidden in a secret cave in the wilds. But, alas – Saladin’s men caught up with the brotherhood, and the hermit who guarded the rose was captured – the miraculous rose destroyed.”

 

Grumbles of outrage and disappointment broke out among the guests.

 

But…” Balthazar raised a finger, his eyes gleaming, “…not all hope was lost. The rose, before its destruction, bore a single seed. A solitary seed, capable of regrowing the miracle, was lost while en route to the Holy Land.”

 

Balthazar leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Before his death, the hermit entrusted my master with scrolls containing cryptic ciphers that could reveal the very place where the seed was lost. Upon my master’s passing, these scrolls came into my possession. And now, mes amis, they have led me here!”

 

The crowd erupted into shared smiles and scattered laughter – the possibility of finding this  “miraculous rose” having been snatched away, was now given them again. 

 

Balthazar held up a hand, his expression playful. “Ah, I know what you’re thinking! If such a rose truly exists here, why have none of you seen it before? The answer is simple, mes amis—it hides in plain sight. Its pure white hue renders it nearly invisible to all but the most discerning eyes, and it reveals itself only to those deemed truly worthy of its magic.”

 

He stepped down from the table with a flourish, leaving the room abuzz with anticipation. Castiel watched the amused expressions from a distance. Surely the assembly knew the tale was contrived, but the prospect of a treasure hunt had them eager with anticipation. 

 

Gabriel clasps an arm around Sir Balthazar’s shoulders. “So there you have it!” he shouts. “Shall we aid this fine knight in his quest?”

 

The crowd erupts in a chorus of ‘Aye’s, and Castiel, from his place in the shadows, sees Ed whispering to Samandriel and Harry, clearly plotting some strategy. 

 

Gabriel calls for quiet once more. “Our Master of Revels, Crowley, and his esteemed troupe of Players will be wandering  –  keeping watch over the hunt, but if by good fortune one of you should find the miraculous rose, all the glory and gain belongs to you! Should you be the rose’s chosen champion, alert one of our players and they will sound the horn calling off the hunt. We will then reconvene here for mulled wine by our Yule fire to celebrate!”

 

Excited banter breaks out again amongst the gathering as people make plans to pair up or form groups and scout out different parts of the manor and its surrounds. It sounds to Castiel a bit like searching for a needle in a haystack, but he has to admit the group’s excitement is contagious and a part of him longs to to be part of it.  A side door opens and Dean slips in, finding Rowena and whispering something in her ear. The two depart through the side door and Castiel wonders where they might be off to.

 

The guests begin filing out of the Great Hall and Castiel moves swiftly to avoid them. Disappearing down a corridor he makes his way back to the kitchen to exit into the stable yard away from the crowd. 

 

Gadreel greets him upon his arrival at the stable, waving off Castiel’s sheepish attempts to apologize for his behavior. 

 

“You’d been wronged and were rightfully angry, young master,” Gadreel soothes. “I understood your anger was not directed at me.” 

 

Still, Castiel begs to help in some task to show his contrition, and Gadreel has him portioning out the feed with him and delivering the horses their meals. He relates the knight's story of the hunt for the rose and offers to mind the horses if Gadreel wishes to take part, but the older man laughs. 

 

“I thank you, but that sounds like a task suited for eyes much younger and keener than mine. Perhaps if I was nineteen again,” Gadreel sighs, which Castiel knows is a poorly veiled suggestion that he himself ought to be out on the hunt. One he brushes off.

 

He has no time or inclination for revels. He’s been too troubled over his impending fate, but also over that of his horse, to take part in such things. He finishes helping Gadreel, then visits Gwenhwyfar, brushing her down and giving her half the apple he’d taken for his breakfast, vowing to take her out for exercise later. 

 

He wonders what the Prior of St. Cuthbert’s will think when he shows up with her. They must have need of horses. Perhaps he could gift her to the Benedictine order, but once gifted, her fate would be out of his control. Would the priory be allowed to keep her, and he continue to care for her? It was more likely that the Prior would have her brought to market and use the money gotten from her sale for other needs. 

 

Maybe Gabriel could take her for one of his sons if he ever decides, truly, to take up his life on his manor again. Then he would know that she would be well cared for. His thoughts drift to the two boys, his nephews. They must be eight and ten now. He feels a prick of anger thinking of Gabriel abandoning his children the way Castiel’s father abandoned him, and yet it must be strange to be eight or ten years old and suddenly meet a father you never got to know. Perhaps Gabriel believes them to be better off where they are. 

 

The only other person he trusts with Gwenny is Gadreel, but once Michael is in control of the manor Gadreel would not be able to keep her without his approval. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of Gadreel preparing more buckets of oats for the horses in the goat barn. Castiel helps him carry them, then bids him a good afternoon, and heads off on his own into the woods to be alone and think. 

 

The cottage isn’t far, but it's in a part of the forest that’s out of the way of the manor’s main gates. It's a quiet place where Castiel often sought refuge as a child, coming here to play, to hide, or just to think. It was a place thick with the magic of childhood dreams, dreams he once shared with Inias. 

 

Now, the roof of the abandoned cottage has finally given way from years of neglect, and one of the walls has begun to crumble, its stones separating from its masonry –  but at least it gives shelter to the sparrows. 

 

Castiel sees one flit from the nest as he approaches. He takes some of the kernels of grain from his pouch and lays them on the snow.  They sink a little, making tiny indentations. Castiel steps back and watches from a group of nearby trees, hoping the sparrows will find them. 

 

This part of the woods is hushed with the quiet that comes from the blanketing snow. The occasional crack in the trees from branches giving way under their burden of snow and the chittering warnings of squirrels arguing with each other over a store of nuts is the only sound. 

 

A series of snapping branches and movement in the distance to his left signals the approach of what can only be a larger animal – perhaps a stag or wild boar. Castiel strains to see and hear, hoping for the former and fearing the latter. He pulls his dagger from his belt and looks around, wondering if there’s a place he can climb to if he needs to escape a boar's sharp, piercing tusks. He could run into the cottage, but should a boar ram the stone wall the entire structure may fall down around him. He mentally braces himself for whatever is coming. 

 

A moment later he sees him – a man! A man emerges from a thicket of brush, one who is now familiar to him.

 

“Dean?” Castiel calls out. Lowering his dagger and releasing a breath. His shoulders relax. “I thought you were a wild boar!”

 

“You calling me a pig, Cas?” he looks affronted.

 

“What? No! I – I mean–” Castiel sputters, “I was afraid you were —Uhhh No!”

 

Dean chuckles, now sporting a wide grin. “Relax, I’m just teasing you.” He makes his way through the snow to stand with Castiel by the dilapidated cottage. “So are you on the hunt for the mysterious rose?”

 

“No.” Castiel says, perhaps too quickly. “Are you…did you follow me here?”

 

“What?” Dean asks, his eyes going wide. He rubs the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, “No!  No, I uhh – I’m trying to find something, myself.”

 

“Oh,” Castiel blurts, flushing now at his hasty presumption that Dean’s arrival could have anything to do with him. “So – are you looking for the white rose?” he asks.

 

“No. Coltsfoot. Don’t suppose you know where any of that grows do you?”

 

“Actually…I do,” he replies. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “But why do you need it?”

 

“My brother Sammy. His lungs –  they get real tight in the cold,” Dean explains. “Makes it hard for him to breathe. Don’t worry. It’s not catching or nothing,”  he adds quickly, glancing up at Castiel with a fleeting, uncertain smile. “He’s always had it. Rowena makes a tea with the leaves that helps him cough everything up. She’s with him now, but we just used up the last of the leaves. Gotta try to find more somehow in case he needs the tea  again tonight.”

 

Castiel glances in the direction of the small creek where his mother used to harvest coltsfoot when he was small. She’d taught him about some of the tinctures she made to soothe the ailments of the inhabitants of the manor. 

 

“But it’s winter. There’s snow everywhere. What if we can’t find the leaves?”

 

“They tend to keep their leaves even in a heavy frost, but I can always dig for the roots if I know where to look. Roots aren’t as strong,” Dean shrugs, “but better than nothing.”

 

Castiel leads Dean in the direction of the stream, hoping that after all this time the coltsfoot still grows there. Dean works on moving the snow with his boots and a stick until he finds what he’s looking for. The leaves are discolored from the frost but still serviceable. He digs up several of the wild plants to bring back to Rowena so they’ll have some roots as well. 

 

“There may be some lungwort back where we came from,” Castiel says. “It used to grow at the base of the trees near the old cottage.”

 

“Yeah?” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Rowena makes a real good poultice with that. Can you show me?”

 

“Of course.” Castiel leads the way back to the cottage to the stand of trees where the little purple flowers with green spotted leaves had grown, back when he used to play in these woods, but he can’t find any sign of the plants under the snow at the base of the trees.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Dean. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

 

They spread out, moving the snow with their bare hands, and when their fingers freeze stiff they gingerly shift it with their boots. 

 

“Found it!” Dean calls. Castiel turns, relieved. He kneels in the snow next to Dean, and uses his dagger to help him dig up some roots and cut some of the stalks with their withered, but still intact leaves.

 

Castiel loosens a portion of the plant from the soil. He turns to hand it to Dean and finds the young man looking back at him with a grateful smile. Dean’s eyes are soft and appreciative, with a hint of something Castiel can’t name…perhaps doesn’t dare name. 

 

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean says, taking the cuttings from Castiel. Their hands are cold, but Castiel feels a different kind of warmth spread through him, beautiful and dangerous. It settles in his chest when Dean looks at him like that…says his name like that – shortened, like it’s an endearment, when Dean’s fingers brush his. 

 

Stop….it isn’t what you think….it isn’t that…

 

“You're welcome,” Castiel mutters with a nod. He tears his eyes away to stare blindly at the cold snowy ground a few feet beyond the young man, anywhere but the warm summer green of Dean’s eyes – so out of place out here in the barren woods… out of place…out of place like —

 

Castiel leans forward, eyes narrowing to focus just over Dean’s shoulder on the soft curve of white petals, a delicate frosted bloom, brighter than the surrounding snow, against a backdrop of evergreen. He sucks in a breath and freezes in place.  It…. it can’t be! 

 

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, noticing Castiel’s sudden stillness. He follows Castiel’s gaze, his eyes landing on it—a delicate white rose blooming against the dark ivy that clings to the stone wall of the old cottage.

 

“Is that –”

 

“No.” Castiel cuts him off sharply, his voice unsteady.

 

“It is!” Dean jumps up, excited. “You found it! You found it, Cas!”

 

“I didn’t,” Castiel stands shaking his head. “I.. I wasn’t looking for it.”

 

“So what?” Dean smiles. “Even better! It’s like you were meant to find it!”

 

“Not me,” Castiel shakes his head. He takes a step backward as if the rose itself were dangerous. “These games aren’t for me,” he says, more to himself than to Dean. He forces himself to look away. 

 

Dean turns, looking Castiel over as if studying him, his brows knit,  “And why not?” he asks gently. “Who says you don’t deserve a little magic in your life, huh? …A little good fortune?”

“Because I don’t get to have my heart’s desire!” he snaps daring to meet Dean’s eyes. “It’s just —” he falters, eyes slipping back to the rose. “It’s just the revels – it isn’t real!”

Dean considers him a moment. When he speaks there’s a tenderness in his eyes. “So play along, Cas.” He shakes his head as if it’s obvious, “We’re all just playing along…maybe you don’t get to have your heart's desire…maybe none of us do, but for these twelve days….” Dean’s smile is soft upon him. Castiel’s eyes drop to his lips, pink with the cold, full, and soft like…like the petals of a rose. His eyes flick back to the fabled blossom in the distance. 

 

Dean turns, walks over to the rose, and plucks it gently from the ground. His gentle gaze is on him as he returns to Castiel’s side with the rose. The edges of its petals sparkle with frost, and when Dean takes his hand and places the stem on his palm, Castiel wonders if there really is magic in the world. 

 

“Take it,” Dean says softly. “It’s yours, Castiel. For these twelve days, its magic can be yours, too. You only need claim it.”

 

Castiel’s heart is in his throat, his eyes look back into the lush warmth of Dean's. His fingers tighten around the stem. He gasps as it pricks him.

 

Castiel opens his palm and stares down – there’s a trickle of blood where a thorn has bit into his flesh. 

 

He can’t…it will hurt too much…it will hurt…

“Hey, let me see,” Dean sets down all of his cuttings and takes Castiel’s hand in his, tucking the stem of the rose under his arm. He pulls a handkerchief from a fold in his tunic, examining Castiel’s palm, then presses the cloth against it. “It’s true, a rose’s thorn can prick,” he says, tying the handkerchief there. Castiel looks up. Dean’s eyes hold his, steady and warm, his voice is soft. “But I find their beauty well worth any sting. Don’t you?”

 

Dean places the rose back in his bandaged hand –his eyes never leaving Castiel’s. For a moment he forgets how to breathe. He is frozen in place.

 

The blast of a horn only thirty feet away makes them both jump as one of the players blows his horn signaling that the rose has been found. 

 

“Dammit, Garth! Warn a person next time!” Dean scolds clutching his chest and doubling over as the other young man mutters an apology. But then Dean is laughing, bright and clear like the trickle of a fresh brook in springtime and before he even realizes it Castiel is catching his breath and laughing too. It feels good…its light, unfamiliar. It feels almost like – happiness. 

 

“Come on,” Dean nods his head in the direction of the manor with a lopsided grin. “I’ve got to get these back to Rowena, and you’ve got to get back to the manor with your prize.”

The happy feeling drains out of him at those words. Out here, for a moment, he could almost believe it. But back at the manor…

 

Dean walks back along the path toward the manor and Castiel finds himself following. They reach the edge of the forest and Dean turns.

 

“I need to tend to Sammy a bit. Make sure he’s doing okay before I go back to the Great Hall for tonight’s gathering. See you later though, right?” Dean asks, picking up his bounty of cuttings. It might be his imagination, but Castiel thinks he sees a flicker of something in his eyes, as if Dean really hopes to see him there.

 

“Yeah,” Castiel nods, “Yes, of course.” 

 

Dean smiles and with a wave heads off quickly in the direction of the manor’s outbuildings. Castiel looks down at the rose in his hand. The stem is smooth now. Dean has broken off the thorn. Still feeling a bit shaken, Castiel takes his time walking back to the Great Hall. 

 

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Notes:

I hope you are enjoying this so far! Please feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think! 🥰

Also, a nod to Paul Betanny’s Chaucer in A Knight’s Tale for Gabriel’s introduction of Balthazar. 😘

Chapter 5: The Third Day of Christmas - Part II - Expectations

Notes:

Hello everyone! Happy New Year!

Thank you to everyone who has left amazing comments, to those who've subscribed, and those who've left kudos! It's really motivating.

Thanks again to Lexi and Sarah for beta-ing this chapter for me! You are both amazing!

There is a brief convo in this chapter that happens in French and a few Latin phrases and the translations are at the end. Sorry to make people need to check the endnotes but it was part of the world building in my head. Also I relied on Google translate for this and the translations are at the end. Apologies to any French speaking readers or any ancient Roman readers for my mistakes!

Also, though it's not essential to the story, for my own purposes of keeping back stories plausible I had to write out a timeline of Castiel's family history which I've included at the beginning. This chapter was fun to write. I hope you enjoy!

 

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Castiel’s Family Timeline

1160: Lord Charles and Naomi are married.

1162: Michael is Born.

1163: Luke is born.

1169: Lady Naomi dies giving birth to Raphael. The child dies shortly after.

1170: Lord Charles remarries - the Lady Maryse of Lisieux (from Normandy).

1171: Gabriel is born.

1174: Gabriel’s mother dies her handmaiden, Lady Anael becomes central to Gabriel’s care.

1177: Castiel is born to Charles & Lady Anael. Michael (15) and Hester (17) marry. Luke (14) is sent into the priesthood.

1186: Gabriel (15) Castiel(9) - Gabriel marries Rachel. Late in that year, Gabriel’s first son is born.

1188: Gabriel’s second son is born. He goes on Crusade to gain a land grant from the Church near the Priory of St. Cuthberts. Gabriel does not realize Rachel is pregnant with a third child.

1189: Gabriel’s third son is born while he is abroad.

1190: An illness sweeps through northern England claiming the lives of many including Gabriel’s wife and eldest son and Castiel’s mother. Gabriel’s children go to live with their mother’s family.

1191: Lord Charles sends Castiel (14) to his sister’s household to be trained for knighthood.

1194: Gabriel (23) returns from the Crusade after 6 years and learns of the deaths of his wife and child. He begins 2 years of wandering through England and Normandy.

December 1196: Present Day. Lord Charles is dying of a wasting illness. Castiel (19) returns home for the Yule season as does Gabriel (25)

 

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When Castiel arrives back at the manor, it’s to a cheering crowd gathered in the courtyard. Gabriel is standing on a barrel in his patchwork cloak. Crowley leans against a wall sporting a bored, but not unpleasant, smile, and the band of players are clapping and cheering. Some of the courtiers are smiling two, a few of the young ladies glancing at him with coy smiles, others whispering to one another. Samandriel is smiling and applauding, Ed and Harry whooping. Michael stands toward the back of the crowd, Hester whispering in his ear. 

 

Castiel feels his face heat. It’s not all unpleasant, the welcoming, but he’d rather not be under the scrutiny of others – he’s survived by fading into the periphery of things. 

 

“Congratulations, little brother!” Gabriel yells, jumping down. 

 

“Yes! Congratulations, Son." 

 

There are a few surprised murmurs and a small group of courtiers part to make way as their father, Lord Charles, makes a rare daytime appearance. 

 

“For your victory, tonight, Gabriel – who strangely seems to be in charge of these revels, despite the coin I’m providing a perfectly good ‘revel master,’” Charles flicks a look of mild disapproval in Crowley’s direction, “has decreed that you will join us at the high table this evening.”

 

“Thank you, Father,” Castiel nods politely. 

 

Lady Hester is now at Charles’ arm for support. She turns with him and escorts him back into the manor.

“Excellent!” Gabriel commends clapping him on the back. “Now let the wine flow and Yule fire burn! Come warm yourself inside with some hippocras until we reconvene this motley court for the evening meal and festivities.” He pulls off his wildly colored cloak and tosses it to one of the troupe, who hands him his own plain one in its stead.

 

Though a few of the knights hang back, to have a word with Michael, who looks on tiredly, most of the assembly is buzzing with energy, eager to get inside and warm themselves with the sweet spiced wine.

 

Castiel watches them go.  

 

High table. 

 

Front and center. Exactly what Castiel would rather avoid. And the location of the rose? All too convenient. Gabriel set him up for this for some twisted reason Castiel hasn’t yet figured out. He’s sure of it, though. Still, it’s easier to go along with it for now rather than cause a scene in front of all these people.  Later he can slip out as soon as possible, or not attend dinner at all. 

 

“Gabriel!” Castiel calls when most of the others have gone inside.

 

“What is it, Cassie?” Gabriel asks, sauntering over.

 

He glares at Gabriel. “You set me up! Why?” 

 

“Set you up?” Gabriel looks genuinely perplexed. 

 

“The cottage — you knew I would go back there. You planted it there on purpose! You –”

 

“Alright, just hang on a minute there, moppet,” Gabriel says, hand up to silence any further retort.

 

Castiel glares, the childhood moniker even more ridiculous now that he towers over his brother by at least three inches. 

 

“I’ve got nothing to do with that part,” Gabriel claims, “I didn’t hide the rose. Rowena did.”

 

“Ochh! Did I hear my name? What can I do fer ya darlin’s.” Rowena approaches them from the direction of the outbuildings where the players are housed.

 

Gabriel turns to her, indicating Castiel with his thumb. “Cassie here wants to know why you planted the rose where you did.”

 

She fixes Castiel with an assessing look, eyes moving from his head to toes then back up and settling on his face with a look that seems to see through him. Castiel crosses his arms feeling stripped down before her.

“Did– did you know I would….” He glances from Rowena to Gabriel and back. Now that he knows it wasn’t Gabriel, the idea seems ridiculous. Why would anyone else care who found the rose? Castiel swallows. “Umm, did he tell you to put it there? I mean – what made you decide to place the rose where you did?”

 

“I didn’t decide where to place it, deary. The rose did.”

 

The side of Gabriel’s mouth lifts. Castiel huffs, unamused.

 

“Di’ya doubt me child?” Rowena asks, in her eyes a glint of mirth.

 

“Forgive me but yes. Roses don’t speak – they don’t decide anything.”

 

“Roses don’t bloom in winter either, do they? And yet, there she is, pure and perfect as a May morning. And yes, she speaks too if you know what to listen for,” Rowena corrects.. “All the earth’s alive and singing. Those who remember the old ways understand this.” She smiles like a cat who knows where the mice bed down to sleep.

 

“How’s that?” he asks.

 

She shrugs, her eyes and smile, both playful. “It’s simple, I thanked the plant for its bloom, and whispered a question to the blade before cutting the stem, in this case, ‘Where shall the worthy find you? The one who deserves the desire of their heart?’ Then I walked the perimeter of the manor until I found it. That old ruin of a croft. It had a special feel to it, it did – once a place of wonder and joy, but it hasn’t seen love in some time, I wager,” Rowena explains. “It felt right to place the rose there.”

 

Castiel glances at Gabriel who watches Rowena, lips curved in a half smile. 

 

“That – that sounds ridiculous.”

 

“Does it?” Rowena shrugs. “The good knight did a fairly good job of telling the tale, but he got one part wrong. The white rose isn’t just something that rewards you your heart's greatest desire. It transforms you into someone who can follow their heart’s desire, and that is its miracle –  but only if you allow it. It’s a reminder that the desires of one’s heart are worth fighting for – worth living for. A symbol that even in the most barren of life’s seasons, a rose can bloom, – that even a ruin like that old cottage can be graced by love’s beauty again."

 

Castiel’s eyes flick to Gabriel who’s watching Rowena with rapt attention. His brother’s usual smirk falters as Rowena shifts her gaze to him. Just a touch, but enough for Castiel to notice.

 

Castiel looks at Rowena again. “Are you…” he swallows, not sure he wants an answer, “are you a witch?” he whispers. 

 

“Oh no, dearie!” She laughs, “Though my grandmother always did have a bit of the sight. Passed it on to me, she did.” She winks. “And that sight tells me, that the white rose of winter, has been found by he who is worthy of her.” She gives him a playful tap on the nose with her forefinger. “Now,” she turns away, lifting her chin like a queen, “Who’s going to fetch me a cup of that mulled wine?”

 

Gabriel steps forward, offering Rowena his arm. She places her hand on his forearm and allows Gabriel to guide her into the Great Hall.

 

Castiel wanders back to the kitchen to grab some bread and a wineskin before making his way to the stables. He goes to saddle Gwenhwyfar and realizes the rose is still in his hand. Castiel tucks the stem between the neck of his tunic and his linen undershirt then saddles his horse. He needs to ride out. He loves his brother Gabriel, but these games – these revels border on madness.

 

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The skies are clear and the waning Frost Moon shines brightly on the snow covered fields, so that Castiel doesn’t return Gwenhwyfar to her stall until well after dark. By the time he has brushed her down and, with the stable boy’s help, fed and watered her, there are torches lit by the great wooden doors of the manor house where a guard keeps watch. 

 

As Castiel steps into the entry hall the sound of a recorder, stringed instruments, and a tambourine provide the backdrop to a cacophony of voices gathered in the Great Hall, already drinking and sharing some bread as the main meal is prepared. He goes quickly to his room to change into a new tunic, then goes to the kitchen to find a vessel with which to place the rose. Mildred fawns over him and the flower and finds a tall clay jar which she fills with water. He places the rose within and thinks about offering it to her, but something makes him hold on to it instead, thanking her before leaving to  find a place in his shared quarters to set it. He places the jar and its rose on a shelf then returns to the hall. His family is already seated at the high table that looks over the Great Hall. Charles in the center, Michael and his family to his right, and to his left, Sir Balthazar, Gabriel and an empty chair presumably for him. Sir Charles and Balthazar were discussing something when Castiel finally comes to the dias to take his seat.

 

“So good of you to join us before the dessert course,” Charles drawls as Castiel goes to take his place at the end of the long table facing the Great Hall. Gabriel quickly rises and offers Castiel his seat next to Balthazar, taking the end place. Lord Charles turns his attention as Michael engages in in some bit of conversation leaving Gabriel a chance to introduce Castiel to his friend from Aquitaine. 

 

“Balthazar, allow me to introduce my little brother, Castiel. He’s always been wound tighter than a spindle but I wager we can loosen him up by the feast of Epiphany.”

 

Balthazar eyes Castiel then leans forward to address Gabriel “Non! C'est le petit frère?”

 

“Oui,” Gabriel nods.

 

“Il n'est plus si petit, n'est-ce pas?”He’s not so little anymore, is he?

 

“Je parie qu'il est encore vierge, cependant.” Gabriel grins, pointing a finger as Castiel feels his cheeks heat. “Ahh ! Tu vois? Cette jolie rougeur dit tout ! Ne t’inquiète pas, petit frère, je suis sûr que nous pourrons trouver quelqu’un pour t’initier à des plaisirs plus mondains avant que ton temps ne soit écoulé, n’est-ce pas?”

 

Castiel glares at him. “Merci, Gabriel, mais je préfère ne pas laisser quelqu'un qui s'est fait une réputation de dormeur et de buveur de l'autre côté de la Manche prendre en charge mes perspectives sexuelles.”

 

“Well, somebody better! With only nine days left to lose your maidenhead,” Gabriel fires back with a smirk.

 

Balthazar’s surprised stare shifts between Gabriel and Castiel. “Nine days? Mon Dieu! Why only nine days?”

 

“Cassie here is becoming a man of the cloth. Aren’t you Cassie? Once Yule is done he’ll be riding out to a monastery and spending the rest of his days in work, worship and prayer.” He turns back to his brother. “Peut-être parmi tes compagnons novices trouveras-tu quelqu’un pour faire battre ton cœur, non?” Perhaps among your fellow novices you will find someone to make your heart beat, right? he adds with a wink.

 

Balthazar cocks an eyebrow. “And this is something you want?”  he asks, ignoring the last part of Gabriel’s jibe. “You have a vocation?”

 

Castiel is silent, his chest tight – vocal cords tied in a painful knot. “I–” he looks down at the table. How do you defend something you’re not sure you believe in? “Our father thinks –”

 

“Look at him!” Gabriel cuts in. “Does he look like he has a vocation to you? Kid’s terrified.”

 

“I’m not terrified!” Castiel’s head whips up, leveling Gabriel with a glare.

 

“Then why are you sulking around everywhere?”

 

 “I’m not – I just….Look! It’s all new – I haven’t had a chance to get used to the idea yet.”

 

Gabriel throws his head back. “Ha! Come on Cassie. You think a few days and it’ll all be just fine? You really think the old man has your best interests at heart?”

 

“Gabriel, stop!” he snaps. “What do you expect me to do?” 

 

“I don’t know.” Gabriel crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing on Castiel – you’re the one with the rose. What does your heart desire?” he asks flippantly. “Or are you happy enough to be Father’s little lapdog? Because one look at Michael should tell you that’s nothing but an exercise in self-flagellation.”

 

“Oh! So maybe I should just abandon any responsibility to family and take up wandering from manor to manor, banquet to banquet – always chasing the next drunken feast or festival?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. He freezes, wishing he could take them back. 

 

“Ha!” Gabriel smiles after a beat, but his eyes are daggers. “No, don’t confuse our roles, Cassie. I’m the wastrel brother. You’re evidently the sacrificial lamb.”

 

Gabriel stands suddenly, banging on the table to garner the room’s attention. “May I have everyone’s attention please! I’d like to make a toast to my little brother Castiel.”

 

“Gabriel, stop,” Castiel pulls on his sleeve, “What are you doing!” but Gabriel snatches his hand away. The whole room has its eyes on him now. The servants have paused with their trays. Even the music has stopped. Castiel sees Dean lower the recorder from his lips as he watches from his seat near the great hearth.

 

“You all know him as the champion of our hunt for the white rose, but today I have learned he is doubly blest, for as I’ve just found out, he already has his heart’s desire!” 

 

Castiel wants to shrink into nothingness. Already wants to disappear, but Gabriel isn’t done.

 

“You might not know this, but Castiel’s mother, the Lady Anael, meant a great deal to me.” He turns to meet Castiel’s glare, a soft — almost sorrow in his eyes. “I was not much more than a babe when my own mother died, and it was Anael who dried my tears and told me bedtime stories, who taught me how to write my own name and who bandaged my bruised and bloodied knees when I ran through the courtyards so fast my body outpaced my feet and I tumbled on the cobblestones. She was like a mother to me.”

 

Castiel stares up at Gabriel, this homage to his mother unexpected. It reminds him of the bond they shared  – of the Gabriel he knew so long ago, before his brother married and left the manor, seeking a life for himself and for Rachel. Before Gabriel left for Jerusalem. 

 

“And this small welp –” he ruffles Castiel’s hair fondly, as if his extra six years makes him all so much older and wiser. Most of the assembly laughs when Castiel bats his hand away, but Gabriel lays his hand on his brother’s shoulder, speaking out to the crowd. “Well, he was the apple of his mother’s eye and the cutest little moppet you could ever know. I can say with certainty in my heart that Anael would love nothing more than for her child to be able to attain his heart’s desire.”

 

Castiel swallows. Gabriel regards him with a somber, pointed look. His teeth drag over his bottom lip before he huffs a quiet laugh. His eyes drop away, and he shakes his head as if considering his words carefully. When his gaze returns to Castiel’s, the side of his mouth curves into something sharper. Something more like a challenge lights his eyes. “Imagine my astonishment therefore, when I was told he had been accepted as an oblate to St. Cuthbert’s Priory and would be following his heart’s greatest desire straight into the cloister!”

 

There are surprised murmurings among the crowd at this, and some nods of approval. 

 

Castiel’s fingernails bite into his palms. He wants Gabriel to stop! Stop! Stop this!

 

“Before a fortnight passes, my little brother will trade in his tunic and hose for a robe of Benedictine black, to pursue a life of prayer, meditation, and good works.” Gabriel raises his cup to Castiel with a smile on his lips, but something else in his eyes seems to dare him – provoking that voice screaming from inside the oubliette ‘Do something! Save yourself!’

 

“Congratulations, Brother!” Gabriel’s eyes soften, regarding him for a moment with something akin to pity, but then fire consumes them and he turns to Lord Charles, his voice sharp as a blade. “Congratulations , Father! Let us all raise our cups to celebrate. To Castiel!” 

 

Castiel looks up amidst the cheers to see Gabriel’s sharp gaze scorching him now too, as he holds his cup aloft. Gabriel tips his cup back, drains it in one smooth move, then reclines in his seat again as the whole hall follows suit. 

 

Castiel lets out a breath. He’s angry at Gabriel, but relieved the ordeal is done. Then there’s the sound of wood scraping against stone. A hush comes over the Great Hall as Lord Charles, with effort, stands and Castiel’s heart sinks. Lord Charles raises his cup, his gaze falling on Castiel and Gabriel. 

 

“As many of you know, despite his unorthodox behavior as our Lord of Misrule during our twelve days of revels, when Lionheart and Our Holy Father in Rome proclaimed, once again, ‘Deus Vult!’ my son Gabriel answered the call. In thanks for his distinguished valor and service in the Holy Land, the church has granted him a manor of his own to our north. Now that he has returned to us, his manor and its lands will prosper and a strong alliance between these brothers will continue to strengthen our family long after I’m gone.”

 

“Here here!” someone shouts, starting a succession of approving nods and murmurs of praise. 

 

Charles pauses to nod at Michael who looks up at him with rapt attention, then Gabriel, who is lazily eyeing his empty cup, before continuing. “Always remember my son,” he adds, eyes narrowed like sharp points, as Gabriel looks up, “Per crucem ad lucem veniamus.”

 

A servant passes, refilling the empty wine cups for the toast that’s clearly coming.

 

“And as for you, Castiel,” Charles turns to him, cup still raised in his hand, “it gives me great comfort to know that not one, but three of my children have answered the call of our Holy Mother Church, your brother Luke in the priesthood, your brother Gabriel in the Holy Land, and now you my child, devoting your life to pursuing God’s goodness. You honor your mother in heaven. I know she is looking down on you with pride.”

 

Lord Charles’ eyes pierce him as he raises the cup. “To Castiel!”

 

A chorus of ‘Castiel!’s are heard echoing throughout the hall as cups are raised, and toasts consumed. With the moments of homage seemingly over, the hall breaks out once again in carefree banter and laughter as the dessert course is served and yet more wine is poured. 

 

Even from the high table Castiel can hear a whisper or two of comments from various groups in the assembly. “Such a pious young man,” one remarks. “His mother would be proud,” proclaims another, but hands covering mouths and close leaning whispers tell Castiel that other words are exchanged as well. Words he is well familiar with – words like ‘bastard,’ ‘illegitimate,’ and ‘stain.’

 

Ed and Harry are raising their cups toward him, surprised but foolishly gleeful expressions on their faces. Samandriel’s brow furrows thoughtfully as he raises his cup.

 

Gabriel is slumped down in his chair, feet crossed at the ankles as if relaxing, but his jaw is tight and he looks out past the assembly to the great hearth with glazed eyes. Castiel follows his gaze. The Yule fire is blazing, the outer nubs of the trunk consumed and flames have begun carving out small hollows in wood as they eat away at the great ‘log.’

 

Across the room amid the cheers and applause Castiel sees Dean regarding him. He holds Castiel’s glance a moment as if trying to read him. Castiel quickly looks away. 

 

He never thought he’d ever want to throw hands on his brother Gabriel, but the angry thing inside him is climbing up his throat again, trying to possess him. It’s tied his stomach into knots. Castiel thinks he might vomit.

 

The music starts up again, the conversation moves on. A new serving is brought to the high table, then to the rest of the tables in the hall, but the scent of any and all food has Castiel’s stomach rioting. He stands up abruptly and excuses himself to his father and Balthazar, striding out of the hall through the side door as the final course is served. 

 

Outside the wind has picked up. The cold air scrapes at his lungs and bites his cheeks, but his mind’s clearer out here than in the tumult of the Great Hall. If it weren’t for the chill of the wind, and the distance, he'd saddle Gwenhwyfar and ride to St. Cuthbert’s right now – better than suffering the biting remarks from the one person he thought he could count on. Better than sitting here miserable trying to stave off thoughts of the inevitable. But it’s several days' ride, and he’s no money to pay for an inn along the way.

 

His breath, a thick wave of frost, comes fast – too fast. He inhales deeply the icicle shards of night air and lets it out, then does it again. A tall iron ringed brazier stacked with firewood  glows with warmth a few feet away. He wanders over to warm his hands by the blaze, smelling the woodsmoke and stomping a little to force the feeling back into his already numbing toes. A few guards patrol the courtyard grounds in the distance, their voices carried like murmurs against the wind. 

 

The nausea he felt a moment ago has subsided, and he considers going back to his quarters, except that he knows he won’t sleep.

 

“So they’re clearing the tables in the hall for some dancing in a moment.”

 

Castiel whirls to find Dean standing behind him, clutching his threadbare cloak to his body and wincing with hunched shoulders as a gust of wind blows at them from the north. “It’s gotta be better than freezing your ass off out here,” he shrugs.

 

Castiel glances sideways back to the doors of the manor, then to Dean. “I told you. These revels aren’t for me.” He turns back to the fire, spreading his hands over it again. “And now you know why,” he says under his breath. 

 

“Oh, you mean because you’re about to be set up for a lifetime with a roof over your head, meals every day and a place to lie down when you’re tired or sick? Tell me Cas! If that's so bad, why don’t you do something about it, huh?”

 

“You don’t understand!” Castiel mutters, his eyes fixed on the flames.

 

“Explain it to me then,” Dean huffs, “Is it because you don’t have any desires of your own? Or because you’re too afraid to go after them?”

 

“You make it sound so easy,” Castiel turns to him with a sneer.

 

“Isn’t it?”

 

Cas huffs turning back to the flames. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” he says without thinking, but then freezes. 

 

He turns and sees Dean’s expression darken, his jaw is tight, the usual openness in his expression gone. His eyes dart to the ground. “Yeah…okay Cas,” he grates out finally, then turns to walk away. 

 

“Dean, wait!” Castiel steps forward, his hand on Dean’s arm, but Dean jerks it away. “Dean, please – it’s just an expression. I– I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t thinking of you. I—- I’m sorry,” Castiel splutters,his mind is spinning, thinking of the deal that had been made and unmade regarding Gwenhwyfar. However unfair it was, it hadn’t been Dean’s or even Crowley’s fault. Having seen the troupe and their hard-scrabble resourcefulness over the past two days, Castiel was conscious of how valuable a horse could be to a – a family like theirs.”

 

Still looking down, Dean shrugs, “Yeah, fine. Whatever,” he mutters, but then lifts a pointed gaze to Castiel, “It’s not like I never heard it before, you know. I’m familiar with horses, Cas. Damn good with them in fact. Even had one once. I wasn’t always a beggar, “ he said, lifting his chin with some pride. “My father was a farrier. Was gonna raise me to the trade.”

 

Castiel cants his head as the words sink in. “He was? Then why–”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean cuts in, his words clipped.

 

“I – I didn’t mean to imply that you were a beggar. Your troupe – you’re entertainers, not–”

 

“And what do you think we do when there’s no aristocracy around to curry favor with, huh? Not like there’s a whole lot we wouldn’t do for a scrap of bread or some coin.” Dean huffs. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. You’re surrounded by every opportunity and you’re too afraid to take it.”

 

“I’m not afraid! Its – Doors don’t open that easily for me. I’m not like my brothers.”

 

“Why? Because you're a bastard?”

 

Castiel turns hard eyes to meet Dean’s challenging glare.

 

“Oh, would you look at that! You do have some fight in you after all. What’s the matter, Cas? Did that strike a nerve? Gonna have me flogged?”

“What? No!” Castiel protests, voice sharp with indignation, but then his eyes widen as he remembers his words in the barn. 

 

“Yeah see, it’s funny,” Dean says, looking him over. “You act like you're some kind of victim of fate, following your Father’s plan for you like he’s God or something, but I seem to remember you ready to go to war with him over the fate of your horse. Isn’t your own future worth fighting for too, Cas?”

 

“Mock me all you want, but my father – he resents me, and what I represent. I’m a reminder of his momentary lack of propriety…of disorder. This – this is how he erases the family shame and finally puts me out of sight.” Castiel closes his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. “It might not be what my heart desires but it’s the best I’ll get from him.”

 

When Castiel looks up, Dean is regarding him with cool detachment.

 

“Well?” Castiel asks. “You said it. Better a roof over my head and meals than nothing. Right?”

 

Dean sighs heavily. “For you? Yeah I suppose you’re right, cuz you’re unwilling to fight for anything more.”

 

At this Cas barks a laugh, harsh and derisive. But Dean’s undeterred. He just fixes Castiel with a contemplative stare.

 

“What?” Castiel bites out after too many seconds under Dean’s scrutiny.

 

Dean shrugs, “I was just thinking about what England would be like if William the Bastard thought like you do.”

 

Castiel squints, nose scrunching. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m talking about William the Bastard, you dolt!”

 

Castiel blinks, caught off guard by Dean’s tone. He’s used to disrespect from his family, but he’s never been addressed this way by a stranger, much less a commoner. He bristles but keeps any reprimand to himself. 

 

“Never heard of him.”

 

Dean’s lips press together, his brow furrowed as he regards him now. “Yeah,” he sighs finally, eyes flicking from Castiel’s head to his feet as if finding something lacking – some disappointment there.  “I thought as much  — because you know him as William the Conqueror, first Norman king of England. See, he didn’t like being looked on as lesser either. Only, he decided to do something about it— to claim something more for himself.”

 

Castiel’s chest tightens. 

 

Take it — a vision of Dean offering him the white rose flashes in his mind — For these twelve days, its magic can be yours, too. You only need claim it. 

 

The memory claws at something raw inside him. Is that what this is? Just another goddamn Yule game? What does Dean want from him? And back there... back there in the woods—he’d wanted it. He wanted to let himself believe.

 

What a fucking fool he’s let Dean turn him into.

 

A bitter laugh escapes before he can stop it. “Just—just stop, alright?” he snaps, his voice sharp and trembling. Castiel glares. Words choke him like glass in his throat. “I’m not interested in any more of your horseshit stories, Dean!”

 

Dean’s eyes widen – he steps back as if struck by the force of Castiel’s sudden anger.

 

He pins Dean with his eyes, looking for — Castiel’s not sure what. He turns away sharply toward the fire, crossing his arms over his chest to shield himself from the bitter wind — except there is no wind.

 

“What horseshit?” Dean’s calm voice is edged with confusion.

 

“The white rose! Now this!” Castiel spins back to face him, voice low and rough, “If it’s true, how is it you know this, and I don’t? Why would you know the truth of things, and not me?”

 

Dean stiffens.“Oh right,” he says, chin rising. “You mean because I’m an ignorant little beggar, right?”

 

“Dean!” Castiel groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

 

“It’s my job to know stories, isn’t it? I’m an entertainer! So yeah – maybe the rose story is made up, though Rowena swears there’s something to it, but the bit about William aint! The question isn’t how do I know this, Cas – it’s how come you don’t? You haven’t gotten around much, have you?”

 

“No,” Castiel all but whispers, his eyes drift to the ground as he takes it all in. 

 

“Look,” Dean says, “All I’m saying, is from what I’ve heard, your birth was no surprise. You’re mother, Anael was it?” Castiel’s attention snaps to Dean, ready to defend his mother’s name, but Dean nods gently continuing. “From what I hear she was a good and kind woman, and one of noble birth, so why not marry her?”

 

“He–” Castiel falters. He’s asked himself the same question many times and the truth is, he doesn’t like having to make excuses for his father’s inexcusable behavior. But Dean is an outsider, and family is… well, family. “She was from a Saxon line….my father felt her status insufficient to his.”

 

“Yet he could dishonor her and his child by denying her the sacrament of marriage. Sounds like real chivalry to me. If I were in your shoes I would think about that before I went giving over my life to his whims without even trying to fight for something more. That is – if you even want something more. But what do I know?” Dean shrugs – there’s a bitterness in his eyes and a false smile on his lips. “I’m just a beggar.”

 

With that, Dean turns, striding back toward the hall. He stops short and turns, regarding him again. “You know, you’re not the only one at this manor who doesn’t get the life they want handed to them, but at least instead of skulking in the shadows, they’re in there having a good time while they can.”

 

Dean turns again for the manor house, leaving Castiel in the cold of the barren courtyard. 

 

Castiel watches him go – striding right through the door like he owns the whole god-damned manor house – while Castiel stands outside in the cold wind, fists and teeth clenched . 

 

What a —-Damn him! What a smug, self-righteous prick! 

 

‘I'm just a beggar’ — Please! Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean purposely misinterpreted what he’d said. He never called Dean a beggar. Beggar my ass! As if everyone didn’t fawn over Dean’s every word – every arrogant tilt of his lips! 

 

Castiel paces back and forth like an angry wolf, eyes fixed on the door through which Dean disappeared, then turns his back, spreading his fingers wide over the brazier to warm them again. Damned if he’d let that oud player get to him.  

 

Traipses in here not two days ago and thinks he knows everything about Castiel’s life? What the hell does he know!

 

A burst of wind whips around him with a lonely howl in the near dark of the courtyard then dies down again. He breathes in and lets out a long slow breath as he fixes his gaze on the flames fluttering and writhing in their iron cage. 

 

The guards are switching out their patrols. The sounds of laughter and merriment in the Great Hall spills out into the courtyard as one of them opens and slips through the wicket gate. As the guard disappears through the doorway, Castiel can hear the lively song of a pipe of some kind, and the concord of many clapping hands. 

 

The dancing must be in full swing then……

So what. 

His eyes turn back to the fire.

He could go in there and dance if he wanted to. He just doesn’t feel like it. Castiel flexes his fingers over the heat, then rubs his hands together over the flames.

Dean will probably say he’s out here skulking. Castiel’s neck and cheeks burn at the idea of Dean thinking he’s got him all figured out.

He looks back at the door, then snaps his gaze back to the fire.

Skulking, is he? Just because he doesn’t need to be the center of everyone’s attention, unlike some people, doesn’t mean he’s skulking! 

Castiel eyes the door again. If he wanted to he could show Dean –  and Gabriel too for that matter –  just how fun he can be. He turns back to the fire.

“Fuck it!” he mutters to the flames. With a sharp breath he squares his shoulders, leaving the warmth of the brazier behind. Gabriel wants revels? Castiel will show Gabriel some goddamn revels! 

 

He makes his way to the wicket door, pushing it open. And as for Dean? 

 

Well, he can watch. 

 

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Notes:

Please let me know what you think of the story so far!

Translations:

Non! C'est le petit frère?---No! Is that the little brother?”

Oui-Yes

Il n'est plus si petit, n'est-ce pas?--He’s not so little anymore, is he?

Je parie qu'il est encore vierge, cependant. Ahh ! Tu vois? Cette jolie rougeur dit tout ! Ne t’inquiète pas, petit frère, je suis sûr que nous pourrons trouver quelqu’un pour t’initier à des plaisirs plus mondains avant que ton temps ne soit écoulé, n’est-ce pas?- ---I bet he’s still a virgin, though. Ahh! See? That pretty blush says it all! Don’t worry, little brother, I’m sure we can find someone to introduce you to more worldly pleasures before your time is up, right?

Merci, Gabriel, mais je préfère ne pas laisser quelqu'un qui s'est fait une réputation de dormeur et de buveur de l'autre côté de la Manche prendre en charge mes perspectives sexuelles.- Thanks, Gabriel, but I’d rather not let someone who’s made a reputation for sleeping and drinking across the Channel take charge of my sexual prospects.”

Peut-être parmi tes compagnons novices trouveras-tu quelqu’un pour faire battre ton cœur, non? - Perhaps among your fellow novices you will find someone to make your heart beat, right?

Deus Vult! - God wills it! (known rallying cry of the Crusades)

Per crucem ad lucem veniamus.  - Through the cross, we come to the light.

Chapter 6: The Third Day of Christmas - Part III - The Revels

Notes:

Hello! Well, the holidays may be done, but we're still in the heart of winter so hopefully this story will still warm your heart. For those of you who have given a kudo, or commented, or subscribed - thank you so much! It means a lot!

As this fic takes place in the 12th C, there are many mentions of the Crusades, Templars and other things that the English at the time would have believed were "just." Of course that is not the case so please note this author is NOT a fan of the violence done in the name of religion (neither is Cas).

 

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The Troupe

Fergus Crowley - the Player King  / Master of Revels

Rowena McCloud  - “Den mother” of sorts, healer, seer, musician

The Players / Revelers  - musicians, actors, acrobats, magicians, jugglers – you name it!

Dean, Sam, Garth, Alfred, Andy, Aaron, Lucky, Mick, Ash

 

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December 27th 1196 - Evening

 

Castiel’s face flushes hot. After so long outside in the cold and wind the manor feels unusually warm as he stands on the threshold of the Great Hall looking in. His anger and bravado got him this far, but now his feet are like lead. Maybe it’s the thought of diving into the middle of crowds of people who seem perfectly content making merry without him. Or maybe Dean was right – Castiel is only fit for lurking in the shadows.

 

He watches as men and women weave together in intricate patterns in the center of the hall. Castiel’s Aunt Amara has hosted many parties over the years and, in an attempt to make him to be more socially presentable, he was forced to learn all manner of courtly dances. 

 

These are something different though – or perhaps they are the same dances, but the rhythm is wild and exhilarating – like a gallop on a cold clear day.  His heart wants to match the cadence of drumbeats and tambourines - his blood aches to sing in harmony with the melodious song of the woodpipes.

 

Men and women clap and jump and stomp, making music with their bodies — anything to join in — to be part of the mad dance.

 

He’s never —-

 

Castiel’s never felt anything like it…

 

He longs — Castiel longs to be in the center of it, but he’s frozen, here at the threshold – taut as a bowstring yearning to be loosed, but ordered to hold by some voice inside him, warning him not to draw their attention.

 

He closes his eyes and thinks about going to his bed chamber. The voice inside assures him no one has seen him…no one expects him. He can slip away right now and not have to suffer this discord between body and mind. 

 

Just go…Just go… the voice urges and Castiel, defeated, turns toward the corridor.

 

The rasp of a bow drawn over strings, thick and lively, stops him. The song of a rebec drowns out the dispiriting voice inside him. It’s joined by another, the song of each instrument twining around each other like lovers in a spirited dance. 

 

No…

 

“No– I’m not skulking!”

 

The music seems to settle in his chest, vibrating with life and energy. Something primal — like a siren of old — calls to Castiel. He follows it into the Great Hall. 

 

Gabriel leans against the wall, tankard of ale in hand, talking lazily with some cousin as Castiel approaches. Upon spotting him, Gabriel straightens, his grin widening. Decided to join the party after all?”

 

Castiel grabs the cup of ale from Gabriel. He brings it to his lips, tilts it back, and drains it quickly. He draws the back of his hand over his mouth and shoves the empty cup back into Gabriel’s grip. Gabriel’s eyes widen, his grin broadening as he clasps Castiel on the back. 

 

“That’s the spirit, Moppet! Grab a taste of life before you don your funeral robes!”

 

Castiel fixes his brother with a scorching glare.

 

“Don’t call me ‘Moppet!’” 

 

“Awww but it fits you so well!” Gabriel grins, rustling his fingers through Castiel’s hair, then raises his hands in mock surrender after his brother bats his hand away. “Alright! Forgive me, Cassie,” he entreats, dipping his head. “So, are you just gonna stand here scolding me or get out there and enjoy yourself for once? You’ve got nothing to worry about, yeah? It’s not like there’s much else Father or Michael can do to you now.”

 

Castiel looks to the side of the hall where Lord Charles sits, king-like, overseeing the festivities. Lord Ishim sits on his left side, Lady Hester on his right, with two of her handmaidens, Duma and Layla, in tow. His father’s eyes track the movement in the hall with a faint smile, as if the revels were a play unfolding solely for his amusement. Before his gaze reaches Castiel, Lord Ishim draws his father into some deep conversation. 

 

The musicians are on the dias where the high table usually sits. It’s been moved aside for the rest of the evening's entertainment. There are two lads with wood pipes and a young man with a round-bellied stringed instrument, not an oud but very much its like. Dean, and another young man – Garth is it? — are drawing bows of horsehair across rebecs in a lively melody and harmony while two other young men strike hand drums providing a beat. The tune ends and cheers and clapping erupt from the crowd, a mixture of guests and servants alike. Dean hands off the rebec to another and steps off the dias to accept a cup of ale from Lisa. He no sooner sets it down than he’s approached by another young woman, Castiel’s cousin Tessa, who is smiling and commanding his attention away from Lisa, much to her annoyance.

 

Castiel surveys the hall. He spots Michael leaning a hand on the great hearth speaking with Sir Balthazar. A rare smile graces his eldest brother’s face. 

 

The music starts up again, but this time it isn’t Dean playing. Castiel watches as Tessa offers her hand to the young musician. Dean smiles and takes her hand to lead her into the center of the dancing. 

 

Hester and Duma are discussing something, glancing occasionally out toward the crowd with disapproval, while Layla sits looking wide-eyed and hopeful at the twirling couples in the center of the room. 

 

Castiel follows the cant of her gaze to the center of the floor, where Dean, despite his lowly status is grinning and twirling now with Lady Tessa. Of course. Their hands are joined and he turns her beneath his arm so that her back is to his front. She leans back against him almost scandalously – their cheeks nearly touch, before Dean spins her the other way again. Another couple is doing some kind of reel now, obscuring them from Castiel’s view.

 

“Would you like to dance, my lady?” Castiel asks Layla, donning the most charming smile he can muster and dipping his head in respect. Layla’s eyes brighten a moment before darting nervously to Hester, who’s scowl indicates she clearly disapproves of the idea, but suddenly Lord Charles comes to her rescue.

 

“Enjoy these revels, my dear girl. You need not stand on propriety during Yule.” 

 

Her smile broadens as she turns back to Castiel and takes his offered hand. 

 

He’s in completely foreign territory now. It’s not that he’s never danced – it’s that he’s never danced like this. The steps to the Court-Pavane the Roundelay and La Couronne are slow and stately, and honestly…boring. He doubts any of his previously acquired skills would help him now. This ‘dance’ is less about graceful moves and more about exuberant joy, but as they arrive amidst the throng someone grabs his hand and suddenly he is pulling Layla along, following a long chain of people skipping and laughing as the chain weaves itself into a spiral then breaks apart again. Castiel turns to see Layla laughing, as now everyone is bouncing and spinning and clasping arms, twirling one another in a carefree rhythm, with no particular pattern or plan other than what feels good in the moment. 

 

The absurdity of it takes him over, and he’s grinning and dancing and laughing along with her, as the music grows more frenzied. Bodies are jostling and circling all around each other —young and old, noble and common, all together. Next to them, a young woman is kissing her man… or a man. And just ahead, Aunt Amara twirls with her partner, a man’s arm around her waist, her hand gripping his, held close as they shuffle through the throng. Her partner spins her deftly— and it’s Dean. He turns and crashes into Castiel, who puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

 

Dean straightens and when their eyes meet the right side of his mouth lifts in that maddeningly lopsided smile before he’s pulled away again with a grab of his hand, caught in the current of a river of elation. 

 

The song ends and another begins, just as unconstrained. Castiel turns back and sees Layla smiling and dancing now with a young knight who’s garnered her attention. Someone snatches Castiel’s hand and pulls him to the center of the crowded floor.

 

Castiel's heart warms. It’s Jo! 

 

Her eyes are bright and her laughter is infectious, just like when they were kids. This is the Jo he remembers  – happy and daring and looking at Castiel like a friend, like he’d never gone away – like the constraints of society never formed a wedge between them. Her hands are on his shoulders as they bounce side to side on their feet with the others now. Gabriel is there too, twirling Rowena, until finally the music begins to wind down. Castiel picks Jo up by the hips and twirls her once more before leading her off to the side where people are lined up at a keg of ale to refresh themselves.

 

Castiel fills a tankard for each of them, then follows her to a bench by one of the trestle tables off to the side. 

 

“To be honest Castiel I didn’t think to see you here,” Jo tells him, straddling the bench like she’s sitting a horse. “You’ve been so broody since you’ve got here, not that you don’t have reason mind you.” She scowls in the direction of Lord Charles and Hester.  

 

“I wouldn’t be here had spite not propelled me,” he says, looking down at his half-full tankard. Castiel looks up and shrugs with a soft smile. “At least it gave me time to connect with an old friend. I’ve missed you, Jo.”

 

“Pllllpbft! Spare me the wistful melancholy.” She teases, blowing a raspberry at him. “So –spite, is it?” Jo grins, leaning in conspiratorially. “Intriguing! Who is it we’re spiting!” She looks around eagerly. “Is it Hester? Wait! Don’t tell me!” she searches his eyes, “ …Hmmm no,” she concludes, answering her own question. “Not Hester….not Michael…Your father? – No! Wait a minute! It’s him! Isn’t it?” she squints as if to read the truth in his expression.

 

“Him, who?” Castiel shifts, uncomfortable with Jo’s probing.

 

“Who do you think? The one you’ve been exchanging glances with since he arrived at this manor! Don’t think I haven’t noticed. The one every other serving girl and lady of rank alike is fawning over. Him!” She says pointing toward the dias. Dean is back with the musicians, playing a slow tune on the rebec.

 

“DON’T point!” Castiel hisses, grabbing her hand, to which Jo cackles. If she thinks he’s bothered that much by Dean she has no idea how wrong she is, but the last thing he needs is the man thinking they're talking about him. He thinks enough of himself already.

 

“I’m RIGHT!” she shouts victoriously, turning a head or two and causing Castiel to sink lower in his seat. “Oh, I think you’re going to have to do a bit more than just dance if you’re going to spite him, Castiel! He clearly loves being center stage, that one – and you’re going to have to steal it from him.”

 

Castiel huffs, rolling his eyes, then settling them on his tankard again as if he’ll find the answer to some mystery there, running his thumbs along the rim. “I’m not —” he huffs, “I couldn’t care less what he thinks.”

 

“Mmm,” she hums, eyes glinting with mischief. He darts a scowl at her then goes back to his ale. She turns her attention to something in the distance and Castiel seizes the opportunity to steal a glance at Dean as he bows a gentle melody. He looks fine in his blue tunic and black wool chausses. They are plain, compared to the clothing of the courtiers for whom he plays, but Dean needs no ornaments. 

 

“You’re thinking about it. Aren’t you?” Jo goads, and Castiel doesn’t need to look up. He can hear the infuriating grin in her voice. “What are you going to do?”

 

“I don’t need to do anything,” he grumbles, eyes narrowing on her. 

 

“Well, I’m going to do something!” 

 

“Jo! No! —”

 

He lunges to grab her arm but she’s too quick, and before he can stop her she climbs atop the trestle table. 

 

“Excuse me!” she shouts above the music and noise of the hall. “EXCUSE ME!!” She whistles sharply with two fingers in her mouth. “Can I have everyone’s attention!”

 

“Oh dear Christ,” Castiel mumbles, crossing himself, then putting his head in his hands as Jo takes his life in hers. 

 

The music whines to a stop and the Great Hall is so quiet one can hear a pin drop. All eyes are on them. 

 

“I just bet Master Castiel here that he couldn’t drain a tankard faster than me, and do you know what he said?”

 

“What?” A voice cries out.

 

“He said get the whole room’s attention so everyone can see me embarrass you with my victory!”

 

“Huzzah!!” someone yells. 

 

The cry is echoed by many voices, cups are raised in salute. A chant of “DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!” builds around them as Castiel is hoisted onto the table by two knights, and a fresh full tankard is thrust into his hand. 

 

Jo raises hers to him with a grin, and all Castiel can think is –   This is how I die. 

 

But then he glances down, and by the dais, Dean is watching him with his mouth fallen open, eyebrows raised—and this time, it’s Castiel’s lips that tilt in a satisfied smirk as he turns to Jo, clanking his tankard with hers—and it’s on!

 

He tips his head back and begins draining his ale in long determined gulps — the relentless chant of “DRINK!” spurring him on. Foam sloshes over the rim, running down his chin and onto his collar, but he doesn’t stop until the tankard is empty and the hall erupts in cheers.

 

Triumphantly he turns over his tankard only to see Jo, grinning like the fox who’s outwitted the hounds, carefully tipping her full tankard of ale to her lips and taking a modest sip!

 

“It seems you have indeed bested me, Castiel!” she teases as the hall breaks out in laughter.

 

Castiel slaps a hand to his forehead and shakes his head in disbelief as his body shakes with laughter.

 

“On the contrary, I pay obeisance to your superior wit,” he replies, bending his knee and dipping his head in a flourishing bow.

 

The room erupts in applause and shouts of “Here, Here!” and Sir Balthazar shouts, “You must have the lady name her prize!”

 

With the warmth of the ale buzzing through him and the encouragement of the crowd, he smiles at her and asks, “Well? What will it be then, my lady?”

 

“A song!” she replies. 

 

His brows draw together. His fingers rake nervously through his hair, “You wish me to write you a song?” he asks, stalling as he stands with all eyes still on him. 

 

“Nooo!” she sings, drawing out the word with a wicked grin. “I want you to sing a song! Something we haven’t heard before, yes?” she finishes, looking around at the crowd for support, which they enthusiastically give with their cheers. “Sing us a song Castiel.”

 

He looks heavenward, head falling back – of all the things she could have asked for. A song? What song could he possibly sing that they don’t already know? His brain sorts quickly through the songs he knows, Latin hymns – no – he’ll be singing enough of those in the cloister before long. Love ballads – every one of those he knows well enough to sing are commonly known. 

 

The crowd is urging him, becoming impatient. He glances around grasping for some bit of inspiration and sees Gabriel with Balthazar and Michael, all three apparently amused at his predicament. Several of the young servant girls, look up at him with wide eyes and longing smiles, hiding their lips with their hands and tittering with one another. And then there’s Dean — arms crossed, whispering something to the mop-haired young man next to him and looking up at Castiel with a half-curious, half-challenging tilt to his lips, and all Castiel can grasp onto is a song he never thought to sing out loud – a song he’d kept in his heart from years ago. Naive and silly perhaps, a song made when he dreamt of impossible things, but maybe, just once, it deserves to be sung. Castiel breathes in deeply and lets it out slowly. He closes his eyes.

 

French, he thinks. En français, donc personne ne le saura. 

 

He opens his eyes, looks to the fire in the hearth, and begins. 

 

“Ses lèvres, comme une douce fleur—”

 

His voice comes out shaky. He stops and clears his throat. The eyes of the room still expectant, curious, and some, doubtful—as if wondering if he truly has it in him. Castiel closes his eyes again and breathes in deep. The walls fall away. It’s summer. The crickets and nightingales sing around him…he is back in that day, years ago. 

 

“Ses lèvres, comme une douce fleur de printemps,

Son sourire, comme la chaleur du soleil,

Ses yeux, comme le ciel d'un jour sans nuages,

Mon amour est sans artifice.

 

Son toucher, comme les premiers rayons du soleil,

Son esprit, il se mêle au mien,

Son baiser, il ravive comme un ruisseau sacré,

Mon amour est mon foyer et ma maison.”

He finishes. The hall is hushed and still.

 

“Aww come on, Cousin! In English for the rest of us Saxon rabble!” Ed shouts, at last, from the midst of the crowd, eliciting a wave of laughter from some.

 

Castiel’s eyes dart nervously to Jo’s. She smiles softly and gives a slight nod. “It’s alright,” she whispers, squeezing his hand for comfort. “Your song deserves to be sung.”

 

He searches her eyes and he sees that she understands. Even in another language, she understands. She has always known him. Has always understood, and loves him still – but the others. Castiel glances around the hall at the faces, many of whom he barely knows. In French the song was — well, it was open to interpretation…but in English… They will know. They will judge him and they will know — and at this point, he cares little for himself, but he won’t sully the memory of his first —probably his last love that way. For that reason, he reluctantly changes the pronouns — but still, it feels like a betrayal of the love it was meant to honor. 

 

“Thy lips, like a soft spring blossom,

Thy smile, like the warmth of the sun,

Thine eyes, like the sky on a cloudless day,

My Love is a guileless one.

 

Thy touch, like the first rays of sunlight,

Thy soul, it twines with mine own,

Thy kiss, it revives like a holy stream,

My Love is my hearth and my home.”

 

Again, the room is quiet. It seems he has passed this challenge. 

 

“Satisfied?” he says with a laugh, now that the ordeal is over.

 

“That was beautiful, Castiel,” Jo murmurs, in a voice meant for him alone. ”I knew you had it in you.” She steps back, raising her voice for the hall. “That was beautiful! And yet, I’m hardly the expert!” She turns to the dias where the musicians are still looking on. “What do our musicians say?”

 

“Impressive,” – Crowley admits, leaning nonchalantly against the wall behind the dias with a cup of mulled wine. For a master of revels, he seems perpetually deadpan. He straightens, pushing off the wall, and walks a few steps to where Dean and the others stand watching, tossing her question to his troupe, “What do you boys think?”

 

“Magical,” Dean replies without hesitation. Castiel’s eyes snap to his, and in them he sees only admiration. He lets it settle on him, and it stirs that delicate life in Castiel’s chest, that seedling, fragile and sweet — like the scent of honeysuckle on a warm summer wind. 

 

The slow steady clap of a single pair of hands breaks the moment — if indeed there was a moment. All heads turn to the source of the sound.

 

“Well, my son! It looks like you missed your calling as a troubadour! “ Lord Charles calls from his seat of honor. Disdain flickers in his eyes. “If I had known of my son’s talents before tonight, Crowley, I could have perhaps offered his services in trade for the ludicrous sum I’m paying for the revels this year.”

 

Castiel’s shoulders sink and he looks away. He doesn’t want Dean to see this — see in his eyes how his father’s words feel like the mark of a brand on Castiel’s skin.

 

“Well, as they say, you can’t take it with you, my lord,” Crowley says, with a contemptuous curl of his lips and a curt bow.

 

Gabriel’s outburst of laughter at his father’s expense has Lord Charles bristling, his eyes shooting daggers at his prodigal son. Tension settles suddenly like a frost in November, and standing where he is up on the table, Castiel can’t help but fear he’ll be the one bearing the brunt of the outburst to come. 

 

But then a new sound rises. Dean’s rebec, light and lively, pulling the hall into a boisterous peasant dance. The frost melts as merriment rises, more instruments joining in, until finally the whole hall is moving and talking and laughing again. 

 

Castiel jumps from the table, giving Joanna a hand down, and someone thrusts another tankard of ale into his hand as he watches Lady Hester escort Lord Charles from the room.

 

“Well done, Nephew!” Amara praises, and Castiel realizes she was the bearer of the draught. “If only I’d known of your talents sooner!”

 

“You mean you wouldn’t have told my father I was only suited for the cloister?”

 

“What?” She eyes him, genuinely perplexed. “Who told you I said such a thing?”

 

“He—he did,” Castiel says, glancing back at his father’s retreating form.

 

“Ha!” Amara laughs, nodding toward a table near the hearth where Uriel and a few older men were so inebriated they leaned against one another for support as they nodded off. “I told him my drunken ass of a husband was no one to train you. That if he wanted my opinion, the Templars are where you belong.”

 

“What?” Castiel’s brow furrows. This can’t be! “Why…why didn’t you ever tell me? Did he misunderstand?”

 

Amara turns an arched look. “I made myself very clear. But making one a Templar costs much more in time and money than pawning you off to the Benedictines. Either way, he gets to garner God’s blessings—only much more quickly and cheaply. Templars have a shorter life expectancy, and he needs you alive to harvest your prayers for his soul, if indeed he even has one. As for why I never told you – what purpose would that have served? It wasn’t my decision to make.”

 

She gives him a courteous nod. “Now if you will excuse me, I tire. I must make my rounds for the evening. Goodnight, Castiel”

 

“Goodnight,” he replies, staring after her as she leaves.

 

The Knights Templar — Warriors of God.

 

It’s not as though he feels a call to go on Crusade. Quite the contrary. The Church proclaims it to be God’s will, but Castiel isn’t so sure. He has questions— doubts. 

 

Still—it was affirming to know she thought him capable of becoming such an elite soldier. 

 

“Excuse me, Miss?”

 

Castiel turns to see the young mop-haired musician shyly ask Jo for a dance. She gives Castiel a wink and lets the boy lead her into the center of the hall where the twirling and jigging are winding down as one song ends and another, more tempered and courtly begins. The young man with the full-bellied string instrument is playing again. Castiel watches as Dean puts down his rebec and heads over to the keg for some refreshment.

 

He thinks about getting himself another, but then remembers he already has one in his hand.

 

Castiel feels a slap on his shoulder and turns to see Ed, grinning like a fool and wobbling just a little. 

 

“Don’t wait up for me tonight boys,” he says, puffing out his chest.

 

Before Castiel can respond, an arm hooks around his shoulders. It’s Harry. Suddenly Castiel is surrounded by his bunkmates, Samandriel joining them with a shake of his head. 

 

“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

Ed raises his chin, his breath carrying the sharp tang of mulled wine. “Lisa,” he answers, turning with a self-satisfied grin to watch as Lisa strides across the hall toward the keg, her face a thundercloud. Dean looks startled by her sudden appearance. It’s clear they’re having words. 

 

“What about Lisa?” Castiel asks, frowning. “What did you do?”

 

“I didn’t do anything,” Ed says, grinning wider. He shrugs. “I didn’t have to.”

 

Samandriel rolls his eyes, “God’s blood, Ed. What are you on about?”

 

“Nothing, nothing. Just…” Ed glances toward the couple again, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I provided her with a little information I thought she’d be interested in.”

 

“For Christ’s sake, Ed, spit it out!” Castiel snaps, his patience fraying as he watches Lisa knock the cup from Dean’s hand and storm off.

 

Ed beams. “I just happened to mention I saw that musician of hers,” Ed flicks a nod in Dean’s direction, “coming out of one of the guest rooms this morning.”

 

“Well — that makes sense,” Harry says, brow furrowed. “I mean…they have to sleep somewhere.”

 

“No, you idiot,” Ed scoffs. “They’re hired help—they sleep in the outbuildings. No. Loverboy here was sneaking out. Trying to be all quiet about it. I passed him in the hall.”

 

“What were you doing sneaking around up there?” Samandriel asks. 

 

“I wasn’t sneaking! I was looking for the garderobe. I’m tired of freezing my balls off when I — you know. Doesn’t your father even have one, Castiel?”

 

“What?” Castiel snaps, his focus swinging back to Ed from Dean, now talking to Rowena across the hall.

 

“Never mind,” Ed waves him off to continue his story. “Anyway, he rounds the corner and mere moments later a certain noblewoman comes out the same door.”

 

“Who?” Harry asks eagerly.

 

“A–a woman,” Ed pauses, suddenly aware of Castiel’s sharp gaze. He shrinks slightly, his bravado faltering. “Uh, no one important,” he says, looking guiltily at the floor.

 

Castiel’s stomach tightens. He searches the hall for Amara. Uriel has moved to Lord Charles’ vacant chair where he’s slumped, snoring, a tankard of ale tipped over in his lap. His aunt is nowhere to be found.

 

It’s possible. Uriel and Amara make no secret of their various affairs. She is Uriel’s second wife, their union arranged by Charles for purely political purposes. 

 

“Anyway,” Ed says, puffing himself back up. “Now that Lisa knows the truth, she’ll need a shoulder to cry on.”

 

“And you think she’s going to want your shoulder?” Samandriel scoffs.

 

“Wouldn’t you rather have a knight than a wandering juggler?”

 

“Firstly, you're not a knight yet, and secondly—-”

 

Castiel steps away, the sound of their continued argument fading into the background. Dean is by himself at one of the side tables, subdued as if lost in thought. His eyes are focused on the bow he holds — one hand slowly stroking rosin again and again over the horsehair. 

 

Without thought, Castiel’s feet are carrying him in that direction.

 

“Une belle chanson you sang tonight,” Castiel turns suddenly to find Balthazar at his right, commending him. “It is yours, no?”

 

Feeling a bit disoriented from the ale, the excitement, and — It takes him a moment to register the compliment.

 

“Ummm…yes,” he nods. “Yes, it’s something I— just something I wrote once.” 

 

“Cassie’s always been starry-eyed. A bit of a dreamer. Isn’t that right, Moppet?” Gabriel smiles, slinging his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and giving a squeeze. 

 

Castiel sighs. “I’m going to put live eels in your bed,” he says wearily.

 

“Oh Cassie! That would be very foolish,” Gabriel laughs, pulling him into a headlock, his knuckles grinding against the crown of Castiel’s head. “Allow me to rub some sense into you, little brother,” he declares, his grin wide and unrepentant.

 

Castiel’s patience is worn thin. With a sudden twist, he grabs Gabriel’s arm and steps behind him. Before Gabriel can react, Castiel hooks his ankle and gives a sharp tug.

 

Gabriel yelps, his balance giving way as he drops to one knee. Castiel doesn’t let up, pinning Gabriel’s arm behind his back and leaning in with a triumphant smirk. Gabriel barks a laugh, craning his neck to glare at Castiel. “Okay! Okay! You win!”

 

“Win what? Say it!”

 

“I won’t call you ‘Moppet’ for the next ten days, even though you’re still a runt and your perpetual bed head warrants it.”

 

Castiel releases him and stands, offering a hand down and pulling Gabriel to his feet. His brother brushes himself off. His grin grows wide and mischievous as he straightens his tunic.

 

“You’ve given me an idea,” he says, suddenly turning to Balthazar. “We need to find Crowley.”

 

Balthazar arches an eyebrow. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

 

“Trust me, you’ll love it.” Gabriel declares, motioning for Balthazar to follow.

 

The two head off, their voices fading into the din of the hall. Castiel watches them go for a moment then turns back toward Dean. 

 

He isn’t there. 

 

Up on the dais, four musicians, none of them Dean, continue with another slow tune as the guests tire and the reveries wind down for the night.

 

Castiel frowns, scanning the hall, but Dean is gone. His chest tightens with a vague, inexplicable disappointment, but he swallows it, turning instead toward the keg for another drink.

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Notes:

So....Castiel is finally embracing the revels! Let me know what you think! I know in Canon Jo is more Dean's friend / family, but even though in this AU she's Castiel's I've tried to capture her character.

Translations:
En français, donc personne ne le saura. — In French, so no one will know.

Castiel’s song: Ses lèvres, comme une douce fleur printanière, Son sourire, comme la chaleur du soleil —His lips, like a sweet spring flower, His smile, like the warmth of the sun, (etc).

Castiel chooses French at first because it could easily be interpreted as “Her lips”, “Her smile.”

Garderobe - an indoor privy.

Rebec - a stringed instrument with a pear shaped body held against the chest or chin and played with a bow. Similar to a vielle (precursor to the violin) but used more in peasant / folk dances. Shown above!

Chausses - Wool leggings.

Chapter 7: The Fourth Day of Christmas - Part I - Sparrow

Summary:

Some guests leave for home, but others arrive, bringing new concerns to the manor. Castiel grapples with his attraction to Dean.

Notes:

Thank you again to everyone who has commented and subscribed! 🥰 I love reading your questions, hopes, and predictions for these two! Thank you also to those who have left kudos!

One again thank you to Sarah and Lexi for beta-ing this chapter!

 

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The Fourth Day of Christmas - December 28th - 1196

 

Castiel goes to sleep troubled, but wakes with a clear and determined mind. 

 

His father’s reaction to his song — if Castiel and his brothers weren’t meant to enjoy the revels then why hold them? If Castiel holds back he is brooding, and if he joins in he is — what? Vulgar? That’s what his father’s reaction to his song implied.

 

A sudden spring of anger washes over him. His father lied to him about his fitness for knighthood, or maybe it’s Amara who is the liar — Amara, whose exit barely preceded Dean’s. 

 

He’s used to her flaunting her liaisons. Uriel turns a blind eye to pursue his own indiscretions, and Castiel can’t remember them ever sharing a room – so why is it bothering him so much now?  Maybe because he finds it infuriating that he is the family ‘shame’ but they are the ones in need of absolution for so many things. 

 

If Castiel’s prayers are good enough for Lord Charles to covet, then Castiel is good enough. To hell with them if they don’t like it. In fact, Castiel is determined to prove himself indifferent to their disdain for him. 

 

The sound of servants working in the kitchen rouses him from his bed. He steps out into the corridor and can see his breath in the cold morning air. He’d be grateful for some warm water with which to wash himself. Even more grateful for a warm bath — but that isn’t likely to happen without some planning and notice given to the servants. With all of the visitors they need to attend to, it might be better for Castiel to just haul and heat the water himself in the kitchen one evening after everyone is in bed. Otherwise, the most he’d likely get is a turn in the cold used bathwater of some more highly regarded guest. 

 

When he steps into the kitchen Mildred and three of the servants are huddled together looking over a small wooden box.

 

“What is that?” Castiel asks approaching. 

 

“A gift for the household from that fine French knight,” Mildred says dreamily. “Spices from the east.”

 

Mildred takes out a cloth pouch from the wooden box, one of several. It’s bound with twine and has a thin wooden tag which she pulls at to open it on the table. Small brown things, like tiny wooden pegs spill out. She picks one up and smells it, crinkling her nose with the pungent aroma. She crushes a piece in her mortar, then passes it around. 

 

“What do you make of this?”

 

Jo dips her finger into the crushed substance, bringing it to her tongue. “A bit biting and hot, but with a sweetness.”

 

“Cloves,” Castiel says examining the wooden tag, on which the letters were etched.

 

The next is cinnamon, which Mildred has heard of but never had the occasion to taste herself.  She beams with excitement at the possibilities for its use. Another pouch holds something called ‘Mace,’ and a fourth, ‘Pepper,’ which Castiel has tasted before in a spiced wassail once served at Uriel’s a few years ago. It provides a similar heat, but warmer and less biting than the mustard or horseradish with honey and apples they traditionally used for wassail. 

 

“What are you going to do with them?” he asks.

 

“That’s the most exciting part,” Mildred winks. “Sir Balthazar promised to come by later to show us a dish I can make for the household.”

 

“Well, before you meet with your French knight Mildred, you’d best get a move on to the Great Hall,” Jo says, shooing Mildred toward the threshold.

 

“What’s happening there?” Castiel asks.

 

“That woman, Rowena – she and some of the musicians are coordinating a choir and all of the ladies and female servants of the house  have been invited  to sing for a recital in a few days.”

 

“You’re not joining them, Jo?” he smirks. 

 

“Someone needs to run the kitchen while Mildred and Lisa are away,” she shrugs.

 

“I’m not going,” Lisa scowls. “I’ve had enough of these revels, and the revelers. They’re unsavory.”

 

Jo rolls her eyes, “I thought you found one of them very savory until recently.”

 

Lisa huffs, about to speak more but her eyes shift to Castiel’s warily, and she thinks better of it. “I’m too busy for nonsense,” she says simply, wandering off to another part of the kitchen. 

 

“What’s wrong, dear?”

 

“What?” Castiel’s attention snaps to Mildred, who looks like a hen fretting over one of her chicks. He tries to relax his shoulders and jaw, which he only now realizes is clenched so tight his teeth hurt. “Oh – nothing. So you’re going to sing?” he asks, changing the subject. “Since Lisa is staying in the kitchen I think Jo should accompany you,” he smiles, despite the jolt to the ribs from Jo’s elbow.

 

“You know, that’s a wonderful idea,” Mildred agrees. “You’ll accompany me, Jo,” she announces giving Castiel a wink.

 

“I’m going to pay you back for this, Castiel,” Jo says through a rigid smile as Mildred pulls her from the room.

 

With Mildred and Jo gone, Castiel quickly retrieves the warm water he came for from one of the young men attending the kitchen, and returns to his room. 

 

Despite the cold he strips down to wash with a warm wet cloth, finishing and redressing just as the others are beginning to awaken. Samandriel uses a little of the still-warm water to wash off his upper half and the two of them head to the Great Hall where, in lieu of a formal breakfast, there are several braziers set under tripods of steaming hot porridge, sweetened with honey, for the inhabitants of the manor to spoon up for themselves. 

 

They sit quietly near the back of the hall and listen as Rowena captivates the young women and girls, as well as some of the older ones, with her grace and regal bearing. Rumors already abound that she is a dispossessed Byzantine princess, exiled for refusing to marry a barbaric prince of the Rus to whom her family owed a great debt. Castiel knows, from speaking with Gabriel, that she’s actually Crowley’s sister, who took up with the troupe after her husband fell sick and died, but even he has to admit there’s an air of mystery that clings to her. And when she looks you in the eye with that knowing smile, one can’t help but feel she can read your very thoughts.

 

She’s auditioning the women one by one, deciding their parts for the Latin hymns she will teach them. A few looks of excitement and several of trepidation pass between them when she announces there will also be a few solo parts. A young man with a high-pitched wooden pipe plays a short melody and Rowena sings out a verse, bidding them to repeat it. 

 

More and more people are arriving and the singing wraps up quickly, with arrangements to meet the next morning in the kitchen and out of the way of the majority of the household. A servant brings a fresh cauldron of porridge to a brazier for the guests. There are several who are bidding friends and relatives goodbye, and heading back to their own manors and homesteads. Twelve people in all are leaving – no doubt to Michael and Hester’s great relief.

 

It is still his father’s manor but Castiel estimates that hosting these guests and the players to entertain them must be costing the estate a fortune, and while Crowley is right, Lord Charles can’t take it with him, Michael, Hester, and those who remain must survive through the lean days of winter and beyond with whatever is left.

 

Crowley makes an appearance and announces to the hall that there will be an archery competition today for anyone who chooses to brave the cold, and that there will be a tournament of sorts in the evening back here in the hall. 

 

Some of the knights grumble, believing archery to be something beneath them. 

 

Castiel huffs. Of course, they would. But he perks up at the prospect of joining the competition. When he was left to his own devices at his Aunt’s and Uncle’s Castiel would pass the time on occasion by shooting targets. It’s fun, and he likes to think he’s a fairly decent shot. 

 

He has time to kill until the competition and decides to bring some barleycorn to the sparrows in the forest. It’s not natural for them to be so far north this time of year, and the cold winter must be a strain.  

 

He saddles Gwenhwyfar. It will be good for her to get some exercise. 

 

On his way through the courtyard, he sees two older men arriving on horseback with servants riding alongside. Lord Ishim walks toward them with a greeting and as Castiel gets closer he recognizes one of the men as Sir Zachariah, a minor lord and old friend of his father’s, who’d been at more than one of the Yule celebrations when Castiel was young. The other man is less familiar, though Castiel gets the sense he’s met him before as well.

 

Cold eyes meet his, a little too long. Castiel nods reluctantly in greeting, then looks away toward the forest beyond the gate, having no wish to engage with the man. An image flashes in his mind of the same cold eyes narrowing on him along with a mirthless smile when he was young and quite literally, hiding behind his mother’s skirts before she hurried him away.

 

Once beyond the main gate, he rides fast for the treeline, then dismounts and makes his way by foot to the old cottage. He wraps Gwenhwyfar’s reigns on a low branch. She pads at the snowy ground with her hoof, uncovering a patch of grass to nibble at.  

 

Castiel takes a pouch from his belt and pours out a handful of grains from the kitchen, laying it on a stone near the base of the cottage in the hope that the sparrows will find them. There’s snow on the rowan berries but Castiel brushes it away so the birds will find the bright little morsels. On second thought, he plucks some off the branch and lays them on the stone with the grains, then wanders back near the trees to watch. 

 

His gaze lingers on the sparrows, but his mind strays to the past—his childhood, much of it spent at this crumbling cottage — where his mother hung herbs, where he’d go to be alone. Where he’d first found Inias crying and turned his tears to laughter. Where he’d first been kissed—a kiss that made the bees buzz in his chest. 

 

He shouldn’t keep coming here. It’s a reminder of happier times, but also of all he has lost. A place where he’d once dreamt of things that now seem impossible.

 

He’s pulled from his memories by shrill chatter. A magpie has happened onto the stash of grain and berries and attempts to lay claim. It lands on the flat stone, wings flaring — it’s arrogant clack-clack-clacking meant to frighten off the plain little birds. But before it can steal even a kernel of barley a sparrow strikes. The magpie flaps its wings over the bounty, in a show of strength and size, but the little birds harry him — one diving in just as its mate retreats, only to attack and defend again. Together, the pair are relentless, chittering and swooping, until the larger bird squawks in frustration and takes to the air, defeated. As it flutters away a feather — iridescent and glossy — drifts down to the ground near Castiel's feet. He bends to pick it up, the quill smooth and light in his hand, the dark plume shimmering with color. 

 

Gwenhwyfar nickers softly behind him.

 

“Stubborn little things, aren’t they?”

 

Castiel turns sharply to see Dean watching the little pair – a hint of admiration in his eyes. Dean glances at him.

 

“Survivors, I mean,” he says, gesturing toward the birds. “Gotta be. These two, sticking it out on their own? Wonder why they didn’t go south with the rest. Gonna be a struggle for them.”

 

Castiel’s expression softens. He watches as one sparrow picks at a grain, then hops away with it.

 

“They have each other,” he murmurs to himself, but Dean hears him, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Castiel, his eyes on the sparrows as they flit about. “Even if the winter is harsh, they’ll have each other’s warmth to comfort them.” 

 

Dean hums, agreeing.  “Amor vincit omnia”

 

Castiel glances sidelong, surprised.

 

Dean laughs. “Yeah, Cas. I know a little Latin. 'Specially that phrase. Even if the songs we sing about chivalry and love are just stories, it’s still nice to believe in things that seem impossible.” He looks back at the birds, then smiles at Castiel. “Like two sparrows finding warmth, even in the bleakest winter.”

 

Castiel startles at his words, a quiet ache blooming in his chest. Dean doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed again on the sparrows. Before he even realizes it, Castiel raises the feather in his hand, offering it to Dean.

 

Dean blinks. “What’s this for?” he asks, his brow furrowing, though his smile is surprised—genuine.

 

Castiel hesitates, feeling foolish. Why did he do that? He shrugs, trying to mask the heat rising in his cheeks. “I have no use for ornaments. But perhaps your troupe can find a use for it—for one of their costumes perhaps.”

 

Dean hesitates, eyes drifting to meet Castiel’s.

 

“Thank you.” Dean bites his lip as he takes the offered feather, and Castiel holds his breath as their fingers brush—lingering a moment too long.

 

His freckled cheeks and the tips of his ears are rosy from the cold winter air. His eyelashes — long and dark against his summer-green eyes.  Castiel thinks about kissing him. 

 

But then thoughts of Lisa — thoughts of Amara, snap him back to reality. Dean is not unnatural like him. He lets his hand fall away.

 

“That song you sang last night —” Dean starts, and Castiel looks away quickly. “I’ve not heard it before. Where did you learn it?”

 

Castiel stills. His cheeks flush with heat. “I—” words fail him. He falters, fearing Dean’s judgment. 

 

“It’s yours,” Dean nods, as if he’d thought as much. “Not bad, Cas. It’s a beautiful song.”

 

A quiet stretches between them. Castiel glances at Dean and finds him looking at him with something unreadable in his expression. 

 

“Why do you come here, Cas?” he asks quietly, as if Castiel is a riddle he’s trying to solve.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Dean shrugs “This place means something to you, I can tell. Not many people come out in the blistering cold to feed stray birds.”

 

Castiel straightens. For a moment he contemplates baring his soul — telling Dean everything, but then his mind flashes back to their exchange in the courtyard the night before. Would Dean understand? Or mock him for being a whiny privileged rich boy, lamenting the past instead of living in the present? 

 

“Why did you come here?” he asks instead, avoiding the question. 

 

Dean’s eyebrows pop, then he drops his gaze to the ground. He scuffs his boot against the snow, a hesitation that lingers.

 

“Lungwort,” he says, finally, his voice soft as he nods toward the patch of ground where they’d dug the roots the day before. “Thought I’d store up some more.” He makes his way to the spot and crouches, cutting some stems with a small knife he had tucked in his boot, then turning back to Cas. 

 

“Well…” Dean swallows, “Guess this will do,” he holds up the cuttings for show, then lets his hand fall. “Guess I better get back.” A sheepish smile curves his lips. “Archery tournament’s starting soon.” 

 

Castiel watches him go, eager to follow, as if pulled by a cord buried deep in his chest. But he stands rooted, feeling the sharp snap as it breaks.

 

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He stays away longer than originally intended, the subsequent ride through the forest quieting the anxious voices inside him. It’s sometime later that Castiel stables his horse. 

 

He’s about to make his way toward the field, where the archers are competing when Gadreel meets him near the stable gate. 

 

“Lord Charles has sent servants to find you and Sir Gabriel,” he says. “I believe he’s in his privy chamber off the main hall.”

 

“Thank you, Gadreel,” Castiel simply nods, changing course. Though a feeling of dread fills him as he contemplates his father’s purpose. Just outside the great doors of the manor he sees Gabriel and falls in step.

 

“Good day, Cassie. Tell me father hasn’t summoned you as well?”

 

“What does he want?” Castiel asks. 

 

“Lord knows,” Gabriel shrugs. “Cost me my lead in the tournament though and for that I owe Benny two shillings,” he scowls.

 

Outside the privy chamber, they meet Bartholomew, who precedes them through the door.

 

“Sir Gabriel, my Lord and Ca– master Castiel,” he corrects quickly, with a slight bow. Bartholomew leaves.

 

Sir Charles sits at a table on a large wooden chair with a cushioned seat. An older man in black Benedictine robes sits across the table from him, his back to the door. His tonsured brown hair is greying, with hints of ginger, suggesting long hours laboring in the sun. 

 

“Children, this is Brother Robert of the Priory of St. Cuthbert’s,” he announces.  “He’s come with news. For you, Gabriel.” Lord Charles’ eyes narrow on Gabriel, his lips a thin line, as Brother Robert rises and turns to greet them. 

 

“Sir Gabriel,” the monk scoffs as he turns, a glint of humor in his eye. “Imagine my surprise when I heard King Richard’s bravest baby-knight managed to toddle his way back home from Jerusalem.”

 

Gabriel straightens, his face going pale as if he’s seen a ghost. “Holy angels and saints, defend us.” He crosses himself, voice tight. “Bobby? Bobby Singer? It can’t be…..Christ Almighty—we thought you were dead!”

 

Castiel stumbles aside as Gabriel rushes forward, clapping the old monk on the back in a brief, stunned embrace. The older man smiles ruefully at Gabriel as he steps back. 

 

“Almost. Seems Heaven didn’t want me, and hell was afraid a’me. So for now I’m stuck here with you idjits.”

 

“What in King Philip’s perfumed arse happened to you?” he asks, surveying the man from head to toe, to make sure he was real.

 

“Excuse me,” Lord Charles cuts in, his eyes snapping between Gabriel and Robert then narrowing on the monk. “Brother Robert, how is it that you know my son?” It was clear he was perturbed at being left out in the cold. 

 

“Brother Robert?” Gabriel fixes the older man with a skeptical glare. “Surely this is a joke. What the hell is this you’re wearing?” he asks, touching the black robe.

 

"Cloth, boy. Same as your britches—though I wager mine are cleaner," Bobby grumps, to which Gabriel barks a laugh. 

 

“Gabriel! What is this!” Lord Charles demands. “How do you two know each other?”

 

“Bobby was Master-at-Arms for our contingent. We met at the muster in Dover, but once we landed at Calais, I stayed close. My French was better than most, and Bobby here, vulgar bastard that he is, had no patience for their talk," Gabriel quips, shooting Bobby a grin.

 

“You French do enough with your mouths, and not enough with your swords.”

 

"Must be my mother's blood then. You Saxons are just jealous that our swords are bigger than yours, but the English in me is still enough to best you with a longbow," Gabriel smirks, cocky and unbothered.

 

Bobby snorts. "Careful, boy. I can still knock you on that mongrel arse of yours."

 

Castiel stares, stunned as he watches the exchange in fascination. He’s never heard a man of the cloth speak so irreverently. 

 

Gabriel laughs, but Lord Charles’ face has gone stone cold at the insult to his bloodline. 

 

“ENOUGH!” Lord Charles shouts before Gabriel can get out the next word. “Brother Robert hasn’t come to reminisce with you about your romp through the east.”

 

Gabriel’s eyes harden.

 

“He’s right,” Bobby turns to Gabriel, his expression stern. “I’m here on behalf of St. Cuthbert’s”

 

“You can’t be serious—”

 

“Hush, boy!” Bobby warns. “Now, I’m a newcomer there, but when the Prior found out you served under me he sent me to give you this message.”

 

“And what’s that, old man,” Gabriel says, crossing his arms. His former jovial manner turned brittle as ice.

 

“When St. Cuthbert’s offered you a parcel of land to her east, it was on the understanding that after taking up arms in the Holy Land, you would, upon your return, care for and improve the manor lands left to you and, when needed, rise to the defense of the Priory. You have done neither.”

 

“Who is it that threatens the Priory?”

 

“That’s not the point. The point is your land and peasants have run amuck. There’s lawlessness there. The Prior sent me to give you this letter. It details that if you don’t get your arse back to your manor within the month to take up your role as lord there, the Priory will be forced to nullify the contract and deed, and bestow the property on someone who will.”

 

Gabriel gave Brother Robert a hard look, but his expression was unreadable. “Give it away then. I’ll not return,” he said with a shrug after a hard moment. He turns to leave.

 

“Now, just wait a minute, boy–”

 

Gabriel turns sharply to face him. “You forget – we’re not on the battlefield anymore, Sir Robert!” Gabriel seethes, his words cutting. There’s a chill in his eyes that dispels the warmth their reunion had kindled. “You don’t get to order me around.” He turns again and storms out the door and down the corridor. 

 

“Gabriel!” Lord Charles shouts after him. “GABRIEL!”

 

But Gabriel doesn’t return.

 

Castiel turns to go after his brother.

 

“You were not dismissed, Castiel,” Lord Charles calls.

 

Castiel stops abruptly, turning back to face his father and Brother Robert.

 

“Since Brother Robert will be returning to St. Cuthbert’s I think it’s best that you go with him.”

 

“What?” Castiel’s eyes widen. “Now?”

 

“As soon as Brother Robert sees fit to return.” Lord Charles, turns to the monk. 

 

“But— you brought me here,” Castiel starts, “You said you were— that this was our family’s last Yule togeth—”

 

“The sooner you leave the manor the sooner you can get acclimated to your new life,” Charles cuts in.

 

Castiel’s heart sinks, a protest on his lips. He’d only started to reconcile himself with the idea. He thought he’d at least have a few more days with — a few more days with his brother, and Jo, and his horse. A few more days with Mildred and Gadreel. Once packed up to the monastery, who knows if he would ever see any of them again. He opens his mouth to speak but Lord Charles turns to the monk.

 

“When will you be leaving, Brother Robert?”

 

The old monk’s eyes flicker between Castiel and his father. 

 

“Well,” he winces. “The long journey in the cold has done some meanness to my joints and back — but I wouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality.”

 

He lets the statement lie, turning a smile on Lord Charles, who is now in the awkward position of having to respond hospitably. 

 

Castiel’s father clears his throat and plasters on a stiff and practiced smile. Whatever wish he had to curry favor with the ‘man of God’ now tempered by the exchange they’d both been witness to. 

 

“It is no imposition at all, Brother. You’ll of course wish to rest a day or two. Several guests have left just this morning, freeing up some rooms in the main house. I will have a servant make one up for you.”

 

“Does this mean I can also have a room of my own? Since mine was parcelled out to a friend of Michael’s and I was allotted the floor of a storage room with three others?” Castiel cuts in bitterly.

 

Lord Charles reddens at that, perhaps in anger at Castiel’s tone, perhaps in embarrassment at having Castiel’s treatment exposed in front of a stranger. Maybe both. Castiel isn’t sure he cares.

 

“Your sacrifice for the hospitality of our guests was admirable, Son,” he nods at Castiel, as if it had been his choice and not a slight. “Of course, you shall have a room. Bartholomew!”

 

“Yes, My Lord?” the steward says, peeking his head into the doorway. 

 

“See to it that Brother Robert’s horse is stabled and two rooms made up. One for the good brother here, and the one at the end of the guest corridor for Castiel.”

 

“Of course, my Lord,” the servant bows and leaves to see it done.

 

“While you rest, I hope you will forgive the indulgence of our revels. Perhaps you’ll see fit to join us for some of the activities, Brother Robert.”

 

“I’d be obliged, Lord Charles,” the monk replies, but Castiel barely hears it. He stares at some fraying thread in the woven rug at their feet, his anger rising. 

 

He’s not ready.

 

Maybe in a few days…a week. When Yule is over he’ll have no choice, but not now. He won’t let his father cast him out now.

 

“I won’t go.”

 

Brother Robert and Lord Charles both turn from their brief conversation to where Castiel stands, fists clenched at his side.

 

Lord Charles’ eyes darken. “Hild!”

 

A servant pops her head into the doorway a moment later. “Yes my lord,” she says with a bob of her head.

 

“Please show Brother Robert where he can find some refreshment while his room is made up and his horse attended to.” Lord Charles turns to the monk. “Brother Robert, I hope you will excuse me while I have a word with my son.” 

 

Brother Robert— Bobby, nods, then turns to leave, meeting Castiel’s eyes with an assessing look as he passes.

 

Castiel waits for his father’s wrath as the sound of footsteps recede down the corridor.

 

“How dare you defy me in front of a visitor! How do you think that makes you look to your new brethren?” 

 

“I’ll have the rest of my life to change his opinion.”

 

“That’s beside the point! Do you know why I summoned you here?”

 

“To pawn me off to Brother Robert?”

 

“No! But your brother’s obstinance makes his arrival here convenient. You will go with him when he leaves. I called you here to discuss your ridiculous display last night. I don’t want it repeated!”

 

“What happened to ‘we don’t stand on propriety.’ You encouraged the lady to dance with me—-”

 

"I’m talking about you making a spectacle of yourself like a common minstrel with that—that song!" Lord Charles’s eyes narrow, voice dropping to something colder. "You do realize what people will think, don’t you? A love song… and not a single glance at the women in the room."

 

Castiel stiffens. He’d been careful, hadn’t he? All these years he’d been careful, ever since— God! Is that what this is? Has his father still not forgiven him? He’s tried so hard, in his letters…in his studies to be perfect!

 

Lord Charles lets the words settle, then leans back in his chair with a sneer.

 

"That’s why the monastery suits you. You were never going to make much of a husband, were you? You don’t even know what it is to be a man.”

 

Castiel’s stomach twists, his fists clenching so tightly his nails bite into his palms, but Lord Charles isn’t finished.

 

“Best to spare the family the embarrassment. I’m only glad your mother passed before she could see what you really are. To think that God saw fit to take her from me and leave me with you.”

 

The words hit like a blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. He wants to rage, to scream, to demand how his father could use her memory like this. But he can’t. Because part of him wonders if it’s true. What if his father’s right? It should have been him and not Anael.

 

“Once that monk leaves for St. Cuthberts, you’ll be on your way with him. You can spend your time in penance for your own sins as much as for your family’s.”

 

His fists slowly uncurl at his sides. He lowers his eyes, biting back the bitter retort clawing at his throat. “Of course, Father,” he murmurs, voice flat.

 

Perfect. That’s all he’s ever tried to be. And it was never enough. Maybe his father is right. The thought slithers in before he can stop it. There must be something cracked—something broken—inside of him. What if his mother had known? What would she think of him? Of course—of course she would be ashamed.

 

But even as the thought takes root, another voice rises, sharp and clear, cutting through the doubt.

 

No. She loved you. She loves you still.

 

He doesn’t know where the voice comes from, but it strikes at something deep inside him. For a moment, he feels it—the truth of it—as if his mother was there at his back. But it’s fleeting— ephemeral. The hollowness creeps back in and with it shame.

 

“Now you’re dismissed, Castiel,” Lord Charles says with a wave of his hand. “Try not to embarrass us further. And send Bartholomew in on your way out.”

 

The words burn, and for a moment, he feels hollow.

 

Castiel turns and enters the corridor. Bartholomew is waiting outside the door, a half-formed sneer on his lips.

 

Castiel doesn’t bother to tell him about his father’s summons. The man heard everything. 

 

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In the Great Hall, the servants roll in another keg of ale from the stores and hoist it into its frame. Castiel fills a tankard and stares into the fire, hoping the draught will numb him and calm his nerves, but it doesn’t. He replays his father’s words in his mind. I’m only glad your mother passed before she could see what you really are. 

 

Shame turns to anger, like a kettle about to boil over, as the voice from the oubliette stokes the flames. 

 

By the time he’s finished his second draught, the servants are setting up for dinner and more and more of the men and ladies enter the hall to warm themselves and pour themselves drinks.

 

He’s back with his former roommates for dinner. It’s the first he’s seen Ed or Harry awake all day. He looks with raised eyebrows at the bruise on Ed’s cheek, which the young man passes off as a combination of poor sleep and a trick of the torchlight. But Harry confirms the dark mark was a ‘gift’ bestowed on him by Lisa when he’d offered to “console” her in an empty alcove the evening prior. 

 

Castiel’s father is front and center as usual with Brother Robert at his right side this evening, Michael at his left. Balthazar sits with several young knights at a table near the other side of the hall — young, single noblewomen preening around him and Benny, the winner of today’s archery tournament. 

 

Gabriel is nowhere to be found for the moment, nor is Crowley, but Dean is among several musicians positioned around the great hall. From a distance, Castiel can see his red tunic, embroidered along the neck with black and gold. The closest table to him is filled with noble women, most married. Among them, his aunt looks upon Dean as if staking a claim on a favorite possession.

 

Castiel sits through the courses with little appetite and breaks off some plain bread to settle his stomach. 

 

Before long the supper dishes are being cleared and tables wiped down. 

 

Gabriel and Crowley enter with the flourish of a sounding horn. Crowley raises his hand for quiet and addresses the courtiers.

 

“As this afternoon saw the men show off their skill with a longbow, or lack thereof,” he adds drily, prompting some laughter from the guests, “this evening's entertainment will be the ladies' choice,” he announce. Praise and applause from the women erupt around the hall. “I will let your Lord of Misrule, Sir Gabriel, explain.”

 

Crowley steps aside, and Gabriel uses the opportunity to jump up on the head of a trestle table. 

 

“As you may know, when a lady’s honor is at stake, it’s customary for her to choose a champion to defend her. Tonight, every lady who wishes to be a part of the festivities shall have the chance to choose her champion.” 

 

Murmurs rise up amongst the crowd. Several young women look excitedly at the knights. 

 

Castiel glances at the dias. Lord Charles looks dour, no doubt still angry with his defiance and Gabriel’s refusal to see to his land, but unable to address the matters further without making a spectacle in front of so many guests. His father’s displeased gaze passes from Gabriel to him, like a warning. Castiel’s jaw tightens. 

 

He looks away, eyes settling on a dark knot at the edge of the table. A blemish in the otherwise smooth wood. He picks at it with his finger until the wood splinters around it, but it doesn’t budge. He pulls out his dagger to hollow it clean, while Gabriel explains the rules of the event.

 

“Ladies, tonight you’ll choose your champions. Each will wrestle another until one final victor secures his lady the prize—this pair of fine leather gloves, lined with soft, warm rabbit fur.”

 

He holds them aloft, showing the quality of the lining to the crowd. A desirable prize for any woman, but it’s the serving girls who eye them with the greatest of envy. 

 

Jo pretends not to notice but Castiel sees her steal a peek as she clears the last course from one of the tables. 

 

Several of the young men from the troupe begin to piece together a wooden platform that will serve as the field of battle — a square about the length and width of a trestle table, and low to the ground. 

 

“In two out of three bouts,” his brother continues, “either pin your opponent’s back to the floor for a count of three, or drive them off the platform to move on to the next round.”

 

Castiel surveys the crowd of ladies, some of them whispering to one another and already making eyes at their prospective ‘champions.’ 

 

Dean is laying down a piece of the platform with the other young men of the troupe. He straightens, brushing the dust from his hands, then looks up, eyes meeting Castiel’s. His eyes brighten in greeting, his expression melting into a soft smile, and hanging from a cord on his neck is the feather.

 

Castiel’s chest swells at the sight of it. His Dean, wearing Castiel’s gift.

 

No. Not ‘his Dean.’ What is this madness?

 

He gives the young man a curt nod in return, even as his heart aches with things that cannot be.

 

He looks down again, forcing Dean from his mind — twisting his dagger into the wood, small shavings falling to the side as the point digs in deeper. 

 

Why did it have to be this way? His father is dying, and Castiel would’ve given anything to have reconciled— to have made peace. But Lord Charles never gave him a chance — his memory unforgiving. His mind made up about Castiel’s value, or lack thereof before he even arrived. 

 

But invoking his mother’s memory like that! 

 

What might have at first been shame turns to bitterness bordering on rage until there’s nothing left in him but willful defiance — a desire to prove his father wrong about everything. 

 

Castiel looks up at the dais again. His father’s eyes meet his, with a sharp, unspoken warning. He knows what the old man is thinking. ‘Stand down.’ The shame, the spectacle, his unnatural bastard rolling around on the floor with another man before the court.

 

Castiel’s chin rises, lips curling in open rebellion. Then let him watch.

 

He’s done trying to live up to his father’s impossible expectations. If he’s already condemned, so be it. From now until he dons the monk's robes, he’ll live for himself—on his terms, not theirs.

 

Castiel’s gaze shifts, to where Jo is clearing the bowls from a nearby table. He thinks of her, hauling buckets of water and milk to the kitchens daily, her fingers red and raw from the cold. Her quiet strength steels his resolve.

 

He reaches out, catching her hand as she passes.

 

“Put your name in,” he tells her, his voice low and steady. She stops, frowning as though ready to argue, but Castiel tightens his grip, his gaze unwavering. ‘I’ll win this prize for you.’ She studies him for a moment, lips lifting in a half smile, then nods silently, her hand slipping from his.”

 

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Notes:

Amor vincit omnia - Love conquers all things.

Not gonna lie, there are about 5 people that I know are actively following this fic and I appreciate you so much! 🥰 Not sure if there is anyone else out there but if you are, thank you for reading and giving this story a chance. If you enjoyed a particular part or have questions or theories I would love to know your thoughts! Come say hi! 💙💚

But even if its just me and the five wonderful readers, Cas and Dean will have their happy ending regardless because, as Dean said "amor vincit omnia." Love conquers all things (at least in my fanfics!). ❤️

Chapter 8: The Fourth Day of Christmas - Part II - Tournament

Summary:

Notes:

So...I know nothing about wrestling and there is nothing I hate writing more than fight scenes or battle scenes. I can't count how much time I spent on youtube watching people wrestle to try to describe some moves and it probably doesn't even come out well but the wrestling tournament alone took almost over a week of my spare / writing time to get straight which is crazy because you'll have it read in less than 10 minutes.🙄I just hope it makes sense!😆 The third part of this day is coming soon! Image - Knight Fighting a Snail - public domain.

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December 28th - Evening

 

Dean circles the hall with a brown leather pouch, all smiles and charm to the ladies, as he collects the clips of parchment from the women of the court. Several of the boys from the troupe strew loose hay along the edges of the wooden platform to cushion the hard stone floor, while Gabriel addresses the crowd. 

 

“Remember, during Yule the world is turned on its head.” Gabriel announces. “Surely, some of our steadfast servants would like to be queen for the day and throw their name in! When your name is called you need only announce “My champion shall be —,” name your champion, and they will wrestle in your honor.”

 

There are some raised eyebrows and scoffing amongst some of the nobles for that but Jo straightens her shoulders and places her name in the pouch as Dean walks by. Castiel meanwhile has summoned Mildred to join in as the evening revels involve all but the most essential servants — Lord Charles’ steward, Hester’s personal maidservant, the men at arms who guard the manor by night. Even Gadreel has joined the hall, the young stableboy seeing that the horses are well and cared for for the evening.

 

Castiel writes out Mildred’s name on a slip for her to place in the bag, eyes widening when Dean gives him a wink as he passes. Dean returns the pouch to Gabriel, who holds it aloft as he walks to the center of the platform. 

 

He turns as he addresses the men so that all will hear. “Good men of the hall! Tonight, it is not for you to choose your lady, but for them to choose you. Should you offer yourself as an available champion, be aware of the rules. 

 

“We will proceed in order of the draw. The first lady picked from the pouch will choose a champion to compete against the second's champion. The winner will compete against the next champion, and so forth, until he is dethroned. “So ladies, pray that the saints in heaven are on your side, for as the lord tells us, the first shall be last and the last shall be first! —- Champions — if your opponent pins you for a count of three or causes you to step off of the platform, you lose! Grab a draught and cry over your sad performance with your fellow losers! Any here who wish to watch and not do the heavy lifting, take a seat immediately along the walls. All others, if called upon, will be expected to champion a lady’s honor.”

 

As Crowley finishes the men throw good-natured insults and boasts at one another in anticipation. 

 

“Andrew!” Gabriel calls. “Some music befitting our champions please!” 

 

A young man trills on a wood pipe, as Gabriel reaches into Crowley's pouch and pulls out a slip of paper.

 

“Lady Collette of Blidworth!” Gabriel calls out. A young brunette woman stands, looking around the room excitedly.

 

“My champion shall be…. Sir Cain?” she asks sheepishly. 

 

A seasoned knight, Sir Cain, stands and bows to the lady, then tips back a goblet of wine as his fellow knights both encourage him and crack jokes about his prowess. He removes the dagger from his belt and sets it down then takes his place near the edge of the platform, shaking out his arms and legs and cracking his neck.

 

Crowley selects the next name from the pouch.

 

“Lady Amelia of Barnsdale,” he calls. “Name your champion!”

 

My champion shall be, Sir Donald.”

 

Several of Sir Donald’s comrades cheer and push at him with calls and cheers. A young man’s voice calls “Come on! Go get the old man!” until with a grin he sets down his tankard and stands. Sir Donald hands over his dagger to a friend then cracks his knuckles and shaking out his limbs takes his spot.

 

“The winner of this bout will go on to the next round. The loser can be called to champion another lady, but why would you want to put your trust back into some ale-knight, ladies? You might be better off taking matters into your own hands on the platform!” Gabriel teases with a waggle of his eyebrows, garnering some bawdy whistles from around the room. 

 

They approach the platform facing one another, when Sir Balthazar speaks up, loudly, “Gabriel, mon ami, I believe you have forgotten the most important part of the rules!” 

 

“Have I?” Gabriel tilts his head and pulls at his now absent beard as if deep in thought. “Ahh, but you are correct, my cheese-loving friend!”

 

Balthazar looks affronted. “Cheese-loving? —Tu m'appelles amateur de fromage?” The French chevalier gesticulates wildly, his mother tongue spilling a vulgar tirade from his lips so quickly that even Castiel whose French is second nature can barely keep up. 

 

“Now, now! Settle down, Bal! The Lord knows I love a good Roquefort, myself,” he assuages as his friend crosses his arms looking petulant, and Castiel can’t help but suspect this little exchange between Balthazar and his brother was contrived over a flagon of ale. Gabriel turns toward a group of the men with a smirk,  “Though I think we can all agree the ladies prefer a firm, mature English Cheshire!” he says with a roll and thrust of his hips, sending the hall into uproarious laughter and scandalized whistles. Castiel rolls his eyes, groaning. Only Gabriel would think to make a euphemism of cheese. 

 

Balthazar smirks, nodding to acknowledge a good jibe. “Ah, yes, Gabriel. Only an Englishman would confuse his cheese with something to boast about. I hear it’s your way of compensating for the fact that it always crumbles under pressure.”

 

The hall fills with the protests and jeers of a contingent of English knights, and Balthazar turns to the crowd with a broad smile, arms wide as if to welcome and embrace their collective rebukes.

 

“All right, all right. Touché,” Gabriel winks, with a cheeky grin. “But back to mon ami français’ point! You see, my good fellows,” he continues addressing the hall and getting back to rules, “the ancient Greeks—masters of wrestling and revelry—knew that loose garments could become a liability in a fight to the death, as one’s opponent could grab ahold and gain the advantage. So in the spirit of this sacred season of wine, merriment, and yes, combat, I declare tonight’s revels a celebration of Bacchus himself! Strip down to your chausses, Champions, and let us honor the gods with feats of strength worthy of Olympus!”

 

The Hall erupts in cries and roars of surprise and —- women wide-eyed with shock gasping and blushing before succumbing to laughter as the men goad on their fellows with a chant of “Strip! Strip! Strip!”

 

Sir Donald pulls off his tunic and underlinen shirt and steps onto the hay-strewn wooden platform. 

 

“Come now Cain!” a man chimes in. “Don’t let the young colt steal your glory! Give us a show of your manly chest and make the ladies swoon!”

 

There’s a general uproar of laughter followed by whistles and cheers as Cain pulls strips off his garments until his torso, firm, muscular, and bearing the scars of several battles, is laid bare.

 

Castiel swallows hard at the realization of what he’s gotten himself into, as even Crowley raises an eyebrow at this turn of events. He sees Hester shoot Layla an appalled look as she rises from her seat and pulls Duma from the room, but Michael is leaning against the mantle with a tankard of ale laughing and egging the champions on with the rest. Castiel looks to the side of the hall where his father, Ishim, and the other lord who’d traveled with them are all watching the spectacle with interest. Near the dias, Zacchariah and Uriel sit and watch, each with a tankard, neither of them close enough to be called upon as a champion. 

 

The hall quiets as Sir Donald steps onto the platform, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his arms. He grins, the swagger of youth evident in every step. 

 

“Come now, old man,” he calls lightly, motioning with his hand for Cain to approach. “Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”

 

Cain doesn’t respond, his expression stoic as he steps up to the platform. He clasps his hands behind his back, bowing slightly to his opponent, and then takes his place, his posture straight and measured.

 

“Old man? That’s bold of you, Donald!” Gabriel quips. “Though perhaps not wrong—Cain’s scars have seen more battles than most of us have seen winters! Though, did you know Sir Cain once held a bridge against twenty Saracen knights during the siege of Acre? All on his own, mind you.”

 

Gabriel doesn’t stop there. “Oh, but my favorite part? He was armed with nothing but a broken lance and a shield he’d ripped off one of their men. Saladin’s men called him ‘Faris Aljahim’ — Knight of Hell.” Gabriel smirks, turning back to Donald, whose grin is now faltering. “Still feeling confident, young man?”

 

The crowd murmurs in awe, a few voices calling out in disbelief or admiration. Cain’s face remains impassive—his gaze fixed on Donald with the uncanny certainty of a man who already knows the outcome.

 

The room erupts with laughter as Sir Donald swallows hard, casting an uneasy glance at Cain, who doesn’t say a word—just steps into position, calm and composed.

 

Gabriel raises his hand to start the match. "Lay on!"

 

Donald lunges first, his movements quick but without discipline. Cain dodges the blow effortlessly, sidestepping and catching Donald by the arm. Using his opponent’s momentum against him, Cain pivots, twisting Donald and sending him sprawling face-first onto the boards.

 

The crowd erupts into cheers and jeers as Donald scrambles to his knees, already red-faced. 

 

“That all you’ve got, Donald?” someone shouts.

 

Donald charges again, this time aiming low. He manages to lock his arms around Cain’s waist, but Cain plants his feet firmly and doesn’t budge. With a practiced move, Cain brings his arms down hard, breaking Donald’s grip before spinning him off balance. One well-timed shove sends Donald teetering backward, and the hall watches as he stumbles off the edge of the platform into the hay.

 

Gabriel slaps the boards, declaring Cain the victor, and the hall explodes into cheers. Cain turns, offering a hand to Donald, who takes it with a begrudging smile.

 

“Still got it,” Donald mutters, shaking his head.

 

Cain doesn’t reply, simply nodding before stepping back to his place near the edge of the platform, his composure unshaken.

 

Cain dispatches his next three opponents with similar ease, but with so many matches in such quick succession his fatigue is beginning to show. His movements are still measured, his focus sharp, but a sheen of sweat glistens on his skin.

 

Crowley pulls another name from the pouch and hands it over to Gabriel. He reads it, then shouts, “Lady Layla of Annesley Hall,” he calls, reading the next slip from the pouch. “Name your champion!”

 

“My champion shall be Sir Benét!” Layla calls, her voice ringing with excitement.

 

An uproar of laughter erupts from one side of the room at the use of Benny’s proper christened name. Castiel’s eyes widen as he recognizes the knight who had ended up twirling Layla the evening before, after they’d gotten separated. Benny had visited the manor many times when Castiel was young, but five years had made quite a difference in his appearance.

 

Benny’s brothers-in-arms clap him on the back with a mix of encouragement and playful taunts as he sets down his tankard and strides to take his place.

 

He pulls his tunic over his head and discards it to the side of the platform, working on his linen shirt next. 

 

“Haha! Take it off, Benny! You comely stallion!” a man yells.

 

Benny responds with a laugh and a rude gesture, the motion drawing more whistles and cheers from the crowd. He flexes dramatically, earning even more laughter, though his grin softens when he turns to face Cain.

 

The two men step onto the platform, and the room quiets in anticipation. Benny inclines his head to Cain, respectful despite his usual bravado. “Still got it in you, old friend?” he asks lightly, his tone teasing but not unkind.

 

Cain raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Enough to give you a bit of a contest at least,” he replies simply, settling into his stance.

 

Gabriel, clearly savoring the tension, waits just a beat too long before dropping his hand. "Lay on!"

 

Benny is quick—quicker than Cain’s previous opponents despite his broad muscular physique —and his movements are unpredictable, more fluid than rehearsed. He feints to the left, then lunges right, catching Cain off guard and forcing him to pivot hard to avoid being caught.

 

Cain counters with precision, catching Benny’s arm and twisting it just enough to break his momentum. 

 

The two men are locked in a grapple, their muscles straining as they push against each other, their feet scuffing against the platform. For a moment, it seems as though Cain might overpower him, but Benny shifts his weight, forcing Cain to step back, his feet landing off the platform. For the first time, Cain is on the defensive as round one goes to Benny.

 

The crowd is on edge, the tension thick in the air as the match's second round begins. Cain’s movements grow slower, his fatigue more evident with every exchange. Benny, sensing his advantage, begins to press harder, forcing Cain closer to the edge of the platform. The crowd gasps as Cain’s foot hovers near the edge, his balance teetering.

 

In a surprise move, Cain pivots sharply, hooking his opponent’s arm and twisting his hips with a sudden burst of power. Benny stumbles backward, off balance, and Cain seizes the opportunity. With a swift sweep of Benny’s legs, Cain topples him onto the platform floor, then pins him firmly beneath his weight. 

 

Gabriel pounds his hand three times and the crowd erupts in cheers and cries of disbelief, the reversal so quick that some, including Benny, barely register what happened. But the weariness shows on Cain’s face as he stands, extending his hand to Benny and pulling the man up for the final round. 

 

In the third round, Cain is cautious but Benny finally finds an opening and ducks low, grabbing the man by the waist and lifting him just enough to break his balance. With a mighty heave, Benny twists, releasing Cain with a shove that has him unable to right himself and he’s stumbling off the platform, feet landing in the hay. 

 

The hall erupts in cheers and laughter, the crowd roaring as Benny raises his arms in triumph. Cain leans over his knees, catching his breath and looking up to his opponent with a nod. 

 

“He didn’t want to pin him,” comes a voice in Castiel’s ear, and he looks to see Dean standing behind him watching the match with keen interest. 

 

“What do you mean?” Castiel looks back at the two knights.

 

“That knight, Benny. Respectful. He had Cain by the waist and in position to slam him to the boards, but he went easy on him by pushing him out of bounds.” 

 

Castiel looks back at Dean. 

 

“Risky,” Dean shrugs. “Cain could have caught his balance and countered, but I have a feeling this Benny guy has too much respect for Cain to see him pinned before a crowd.”

 

Back on the platform, Cain approaches the victor.

 

“Well done,” he says simply, offering his hand to Benny.

 

Benny clasps it firmly, his grin wide but warm. “That means a lot, coming from you,” he replies, his voice sincere. “You made me earn it, old man.”

 

Cain gives him a nod. Benny grasps his hand and holds it aloft, garnering an explosion of cheers from the crowd. 

 

“Let’s hear it for Sir Cain, who bested four of our hopefuls!” Gabriel announces. “Now let's see if Benny is strong enough to surpass that and carry on to the end!”

 

Cain steps back to join the crowd, his composure as steady as ever. Lady Collette greets him with a warm smile and a tankard of ale. The elder knight bows to brush his lips against the back of her hand, then leads him over to a bench to sit.

 

“Boy, she’s smitten, and he’s a widower I hear,” Dean grins. “Might be that a wrestling match makes a love match.”

 

Castiel regards them. It’s true, Cain is eligible and Colette’s family would certainly benefit from their daughter making such a match, but there must be at least twenty years between her and the elder knight.

 

He turns back. As Dean watches the pair speaking quietly to each other amidst the mayhem of the court, his eyes are soft…hopeful.

 

“You really believe it — don’t you,” he remarks curiously.

 

Dean turns to him, brow furrowed. “Believe what?”

 

Castiel looks back to Cain and Colette, then Dean.

 

“That love conquers all things. Even age?” Castiel shakes his head. “I’ve seen many women married off to older men for the sake of alliance and advantage, but rarely with a concern for love.” He thinks of Amara and Uriel, who even now has disappeared from the hall, perhaps with a conquest of his own or to sleep off his drink. 

 

“Look at them,” Dean says with a nod in their direction. “How they search each other’s eyes. There’s a saying that ‘the eye is the lamp of the body.’”

 

He’s right, Castiel observes. The pair speak softly to one another, stealing glances, eyes meeting then flitting away. It might be his imagination, or the aftermath of Cain's exertion in the bouts, but there’s a blush on Sir Cain’s cheeks betraying a boyish shyness that belies the experience of the otherwise impassive knight.

 

“It’s from the Bible,” Castiel smiles as he watches them. “The book of Matthew.”

 

“What?” Dean asks, turning to him.

 

“That saying — ‘The eye is the lamp of the body.”

 

Dean huffs with a surprised smile. “Well whatta you know? Must be true then,” he turns back to the couple. “And look at their eyes, all alight like the flames of a thousand candles.” His grin falters, “I just hope the world doesn’t snuff them out. There are some things in this world that even love can’t conquer.”

 

Dean swallows thickly, eyes clouding as if lost in some troubling thought. Castiel’s chest tightens with a growing ache — a need to understand and shield him from whatever shadow dimmed the light of Dean’s eyes just now. 

 

“Dean?” he says softly, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

 

Dean blinks, snapping back from wherever his mind wandered, and turns questioning eyes on him. Castiel opens his mouth to speak but is cut off when a body hurdles off the platform slamming into them both.

 

They stagger back but remain upright as Benny’s current opponent, sprawled at their feet, acknowledges defeat. 

 

Suddenly, Dean bursts into laughter, his tunic splashed with the remnants of the tankard he’s been holding. The sound is rich and unrestrained, a startling contrast to the heaviness just moments before. As the shock and tension leave his body, Castiel can’t help but join him, erupting into body-shaking laughter of his own.

 

Dean checks to make sure his feather is unharmed, then claps Castiel on the back declaring his intention to grab them both fresh tankards. He wanders off and Castiel returns his attention to the tournament. 

 

Benny is unmatched by his first three opponents before finally being put to the test.

 

“Mildred Baker!” Gabriel calls with a mischievous grin, and Mildred, who's been sitting with Jo on a nearby bench, stands flustered. 

 

“Go on, Mildred,” Castiel grins. “Choose anyone.” His eyes widen, flicking toward Sir Balthazar. Mildred nervously puts a hand to her mouth, but then nods.

 

“My champion shall be, Sir Balthazar,” she declares, chin held high.

 

There are some surprised rumblings, some of the courtiers thinking it would be more proper for a commoner to choose a common champion — but it's Yule, and during the revels, all norms are fair game.  

 

Balthazar approaches her, bowing low and taking the older woman’s hand, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Je suis enchantée mademoiselle. It would give me great pleasure to act as your champion,” he says, his accent thick. 

 

Mildred blushes and laughs like a maiden, as with a wink, Sir Balthazar strips off his tunic, handing it to her for safekeeping.

 

“Mademoiselle!” she whispers to Jo with a grin as the knight takes his place on the platform.

 

It takes Benny all three bouts to best Sir Balthazar, but best him he does, and with dignity, Balthazar claps Benny on the back in congratulations.

 

“Well, if I have to lose, Sir Benét,” he declares with dramatic flair, “at least I lose with dignity, knowing it is strong French blood that has bested me! Even if you’ve been seduced by this frigid English land.”

 

The crowd erupts in laughter and applause, Benny included—his hearty chuckle matching the warmth in his expression.

 

Balthazar steps off the field of battle to make his chagrined apologies to Mildred. “My deepest regrets, mademoiselle. I fear I was not quite up to the task.”

 

Mildred laughs, her cheeks still rosy, and waves a dismissive hand. “You fought valiantly, Sir Balthazar.” She somewhat reluctantly hands Balthazar back his tunic and linen shirt. “That is all a lady could ask for.” 

 

The hall is alive with energy, laughter, and the clinking of tankards as the wrestling matches continue. Benny stands tall on the platform, grinning and basking in the crowd’s cheers after dispatching another opponent. His broad frame and easy confidence make him an instant favorite, and the excitement in the room is growing.

 

Gabriel reaches into the pouch again, drawing out the next name. He pauses dramatically, raising his eyebrows before shouting, “Joanna Kitchens!”

 

Castiel’s heart leaps to his throat. In the excitement of watching the bout with Dean, he’d almost forgotten he’d agreed to take part.

 

Jo, standing near the edge of the room, grins slyly and steps forward. Her voice rings out, confident and clear, “My champion shall be— Castiel!”

 

Lord Charles pushes himself up from his throne to stand and the room quiets for a moment before erupting into murmurs. 

 

“Castiel?” someone scoffs. “He’s a bookworm, not a brawler! Isn’t he to be a priest or something?”

 

Castiel stiffens, eyes landing on Lord Zachariah, standing next to his father with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

“She’d be better off picking a serving wench. At least they have experience slipping a man’s hold,” Lord Ishim calls out, eliciting laughter from the far end of the hall.

 

Suddenly it’s like he’s eight years old again, the courtyard bullies testing the limits of their rank and entitlement by attempting to put the lord’s bastard in his place —only now they are his father’s honored guests, gathered right beside him. Anger at his father’s indifference boils in his veins, for the child he was and the man he is now. His heartbeat ratchets up.

 

“Go show 'em what you’re made of, Cas!” Dean shouts, breaking the tension and clapping him on the back with a little shove toward the platform. Ed, Harry, and Samandriel, along with some others, let up a cheer and Castiel is suddenly standing at the edge of the platform, the sound of hoots, whistles, and cheers urging him on.

 

His chin lifts as he strides toward the center. His father sits back down in his chair near the hearth. Lord Charles’ disapproval is palpable, but Castiel refuses to look at him.  

 

Let him rage. Let him see his bastard son rolling on the boards with men in front of the entire court. If his father refuses to see anything in Castiel but shame, Castiel won’t hold it back anymore. He’ll shove it in his face.

 

Benny raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Well, well,” he drawls, as Castiel pulls off his tunic to the whistles and hoots of the crowd and casts it aside. 

 

The last time Castiel had seen Benny it was just before Gabriel left to elope with Rachel. He’d been shorter and not nearly as broad of muscle. 

 

“Didn’t think you’d be one to take me on, Cassie. Sure you’re up for this, little brother?”

 

Benny called everyone he cared about “brother,” and being one of Gabriel’s closest friends had engendered a natural connection between them. It was Benny who first taught Castiel how to wrestle — in part because Gabriel liked to pin his little brother whenever he could, just to annoy him, and Benny thought it only fair for him to know how to break a hold, but also to deal with those same courtyard bullies.

 

Castiel steps up onto the platform, meeting Benny’s gaze with quiet determination. “Don’t hold back on my account,” he says coolly, his voice even despite the worry twisting his gut at the prospect of losing to Benny in front of Dea— in front of all of these people.

 

“Oh, little brother!” Gabriel grins clapping one hand on Castiel’s back, the other on Benny’s, “Just like old times! Looks like this might be interesting after all.” Gabriel lets go and backs off of the platform. "Lay on!"

 

Benny lunges first, his weight shaking the boards underfoot. Castiel darts to the side, narrowly avoiding the grapple. 

He’s been watching Benny’s matches, studying his movements, on top of which he remembers Benny’s lessons and uses that knowledge now. Benny’s strength is his greatest asset, but it makes his attacks slower and easier to anticipate.

 

The knight charges again, aiming low, but Castiel pivots, using Benny’s momentum to shove him forward. Benny stumbles, and with a quick sweep of the legs, Castiel sends him crashing onto the boards.

 

The room erupts into cheers and gasps. Gabriel pounds the boards. “Round one to Castiel!”

 

Castiel glances toward his father, whose disapproving frown deepens. A flicker of satisfaction sparks in his chest, but he quickly refocuses. Benny is already climbing to his feet, shaking his head with a laugh.

 

“Not bad, kid,” Benny says, cracking his neck. “But let’s see how you handle round two.”

 

The second round begins, and Benny changes tactics. He feints left, then surges forward, catching Castiel by the waist. Before Castiel can counter, Benny heaves him into the air and slams him onto the boards. The impact knocks the wind out of him, and the count of three passes in a blur.

 

The crowd cheers Benny’s victory in round two, but Castiel stays on the boards, staring at the rafters, trying to catch his breath. 

 

“Get up, Cas!” Dean yells. 

 

He pulls himself to his feet and shakes himself off. He stands at the edge of the platform waiting for Gabriel to signal round three, when Dean’s voice comes from behind, soft but insistent.

 

“You’re doing well,” Dean assures him. His hand lightly brushes Castiel’s shoulder as he leans in. “But you’ve gotta stop letting him get his grip on you. Benny’s strong, but he’s predictable. Watch his left side—he always leads with it. Feint toward it, and he’ll overcommit. Then you’ve got him.”

 

Castiel is still catching his breath but turns and looks questioningly at Dean.

 

“Trust me,” Dean nods. “Benny’s a big guy, but he’s been playing this game too long. He’s got habits, and you’re faster. Use it.”

 

Castiel nods. Dean’s right, Benny does lead with his left. 

 

Dean steps back, his expression calm but watchful as Castiel squares up for the final round. The hall quiets, tension thick in the air.

 

Gabriel raises his hand. “Final round— Lay on!"

 

Benny charges immediately, but Castiel keeps his distance, circling like a wolf. Benny’s grin tightens as he lunges, leading with his left side. Castiel feints toward it, and as Dean predicted, Benny overcommits, swinging wide. Castiel ducks low, using the opening to ram his shoulder into Benny’s chest and knock him off balance.

 

Benny stumbles, trying to recover, but Castiel presses his advantage. He hooks Benny’s leg and twists sharply, sending the larger man crashing to the boards. Before Benny can rise, Castiel pins him with all his weight, his arms trembling with the effort.

 

Gabriel slaps the boards three times, and the room erupts in chaos—cheers, gasps, and laughter blending into a cacophony of sound at the upset.

 

Castiel rises, his chest heaving, and extends a hand to Benny.

 

“Well done, kid,” Benny says, grinning as he takes the offered hand. “Don’t like losing, but if I gotta be knocked outta the challenge I’m at least be happy it was you that done it.”

 

Castiel nods, “Everything I know is thanks to you,” he acknowledges, his lips twitching into a small, triumphant smile. 

 

He glances toward Dean, who leans casually against a trestle table near the edge of the platform, his eyes shining with pride. Castiel’s gaze lingers for a moment before Jo rushes forward, throwing her arms around him in celebration.

 

“You did it, Cas!” she cheers.

 

“Yes, but it’s not over yet,” he reminds her, taking a quick sip of ale and mentally readying himself for the next challenger, whoever that may be.

 

The crowd roars as Castiel takes his place on the platform for his next match. Gabriel dips into the pouch and calls out the next name. “Lady Abigail!”

 

A young lady stands, flustered but clearly delighted, her cheeks pink as she glances around the room. Her eyes land on Samandriel, and she calls his name with a shy smile.

 

Samandriel, who had been quietly sipping from a tankard, blinks in surprise. But then he rises, bowing gallantly to the young lady, his boyish grin warming the hall. “An honor,” he says, his voice steady despite his evident surprise.

 

Around him, the courtiers erupt into laughter, their teasing quick and relentless.

 

“Look at him, grinning like a pup who's been tossed a bone!” one jeers.

 

Another leans back, raising his tankard. “Two pups in a contest now, is it?”

 

“I don’t know —” Sir Balthazar contends. “One of those pups just bested one of King Richard’s fiercest mastiffs!”

 

The crowd roars at the jab, the room vibrating with cheers and whistles. 

 

The match begins, and while Samandriel is quick and well-trained, his inexperience in unarmed combat quickly becomes apparent. Castiel, having faced a far more opposing challenge in Benny, gains the upper hand with ease. Samandriel fights valiantly—  his movements practiced but predictable, like someone who has been taught how to fight but who never had the necessity.

 

After a brief but spirited exchange, Castiel pins him to the boards, not once, but twice, winning the match. 

The crowd cheers as Samandriel rises with a sheepish grin, extending his hand to Castiel. “Well fought,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder before stepping off the platform.

 

Gabriel is already reaching into the pouch again. “Lady Jocelyn!”

 

A stately young woman with a commanding air steps forward, her eyes sweeping the room before settling on a knight whose imposing stature draws a murmur from the crowd. Sir Edgar, known for his brute strength and impressive tournament record, steps forward with a confident smirk.

 

Castiel feels a flicker of doubt as he faces his newest opponent, but Dean is at the edge of the platform again, his voice low and sure. “Stay light on your feet, Cas. Keep him guessing—don’t let him pin you into a rhythm. You’ve got this.”

 

Taking Dean’s words to heart, Castiel weaves and dodges, tiring the larger knight out before exploiting an opening. With surprising agility, Castiel manages to topple Sir Edgar, pinning him just long enough for Gabriel to slap the boards. 

 

“First round, Castiel!” Gabriel shouts as the men ready themselves for a second go. 

 

The second bout has Castiel pinned, but in the third, he uses his leaner, swifter form to his advantage, dodging Sir Edgar’s charge at the last second to send him stumbling off the platform.

 

The hall erupts into gasps and applause, their disbelief turning into respect as Castiel stands victorious once more.

 

Castiel chances a glance at his father, but Lord Charles looks unimpressed, his expression unreadable. He mentally shrugs it off. His father is a lost cause.  

 

This win is about Jo getting a pair of warm gloves, he tells himself.

 

Gabriel, clearly relishing the energy in the room, reaches into the pouch for what is to be the final match. He reads the name aloud with a flourish. “Lady Amara!”

 

Amidst the chatter, Lady Amara rises, her movements deliberate and regal. 

 

Castiel’s brow furrows. He hadn’t seen Amara add her name. His gaze sweeps the hall looking again for Lord Uriel but he’s still nowhere to be found. 

 

Amara is approaching the platform. Castiel’s widen as he watches — her eyes settling on—-

 

No. 

 

A clandestine meeting in the dark of night is one thing, but — She wouldn’t— Not here in front of the whole court. — Would she?

 

She lifts her chin and declares, “My champion shall be, Dean of Winchester.”

 

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Notes:

Thank you for your comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this fic! Please drop a comment if you have a minute! And if there was something specific in this chapter that you liked, please do let me know.

Next chapter is coming soon!

Chapter 9: The Fourth Day of Christmas -Part III - A Sparrow in a Snare

Summary:

Piggyback Wrestlers - public domain

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December 28th - Evening

 

The room erupts in murmurs and shocked whispers. Dean straightens from where he was leaning, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glances at Crowley, who is already stepping forward to intervene.

 

“The troupe is here to assist the revels, my lady,” Crowley says smoothly, his tone laced with deference, but firm. “Not to take part in the matches.”

 

Amara’s lips curve into an imperious smile, her gaze fixed on Dean. “Nonsense! You said so yourself, it is the lady’s choice, is it not?” she counters, her voice ringing with finality. “And I choose Dean.”

 

The room holds its breath as all eyes shift to Crowley. For a moment, the tension is palpable, but then he gives a small, tight smile and inclines his head. “As you wish,” he says, though his tone suggests he finds the situation utterly vexing.

 

Crowley turns, stepping closer to where Dean stands. 

 

“Be careful. We can’t afford her displeasure,” he says quietly.  

 

Dean nods, exhaling slowly. He runs a hand through his hair before stepping forward. His usual swagger is tempered by a flicker of unease, though he masks it quickly with a crooked grin. “Well, guess that settles it,” he mutters, climbing onto the platform.

He casts a glance at Castiel, their eyes meeting briefly before he pulls off his tunic and shirt, casting them aside. The movement is casual, nonchalant, but a riot of whistles and catcalls erupts from the room as Dean’s lean, muscular frame is revealed. Castiel sees Dean’s jaw tighten.

Castiel blinks, his breath catching. Dean’s body is lithe and strong —the contours of his body carved from a life of hard work and resilience. Castiel breathes out, trying to ignore the curve of Dean’s neck where it meets his shoulders, the hollows and ridges drawing his eye. 

 

This isn’t right. Dean has been nothing but kind to him. He can’t— he won’t repay Dean’s kindness by gawking at him indecently. 

 

“Ready, champion?” Dean says, his voice low and teasing—but there’s an edge to it, something unspoken that makes Castiel’s chest tighten.

 

Castiel swallows hard, quickly averting his eyes and trying to focus. The warmth blooming in his chest is not from exertion and he’s certain it's climbing embarrassingly up his cheeks.

 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Well, well. Last match, Cassie. If Deano here pins you to the boards twice he wins for Amara, if you pin him the gloves are Jo’s.”

 

Dean steps into position across from Castiel. His grin quirks to one side, easy and familiar, but there’s something in his gaze that feels sharper—more focused—than usual. He rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers.

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Castiel,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that no one else can hear.

 

Gabriel raises his hand and drops it. "Lay on!"

 

Dean is fast. Faster than anyone Castiel has faced tonight. He closes the gap between them in an instant, his movements fluid and precise, and before Castiel can even think to counter, Dean hooks his arm and sweeps his leg out from under him. Castiel hits the boards hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Dean pins him effortlessly, leaning down just enough to make it clear the match is his.

 

“Round one to Dean of Winchester!”

 

The crowd erupts into cheers and whistles, but Castiel barely hears them. Dean’s face is close, his lips curling into a faint smile as he whispers, “You’re too riled, Cas. You’ve got what it takes, but you’re overthinking it. You froze. Relax—trust your instincts.”

 

Castiel blinks up at him, his heart pounding for reasons that have little to do with the match. Dean’s weight is warm and solid against him, and his voice carries a teasing edge that sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine.

 

No, Castiel thinks. His instincts would not serve him well at the moment.

 

Dean straightens, extending a hand to help Castiel up. The crowd is still roaring, as they back away from each other, getting set for the next bout.

 

Gabriel leans in with a smirk. “I know his face is heaven’s handiwork, little brother, but try and at least make a show of it this time, eh?” he chides softly before stepping away. 

 

Yes —- great! As if Castiel knowing everyone sees right through him will make everything better! Castiel feels the heat crawling up his neck, sure it must be visible to the entire hall. His father must surely have noticed.

 

Isn’t this what he’d wanted, though? To defy Lord Charles completely? His father would never accept him—never see his worth—so why not throw his scandalous attractions in his face? Grappling with men in front of the court, rolling around on the boards as a way to spite him?

 

But it doesn’t feel like spite now. It feels different. Too personal—too raw.

 

Those earlier matches hadn’t meant anything. Wrestling those other bodies was just a game, no matter what his father thought. But this—this isn’t just a game anymore. Not with Dean.

 

Dean, who has no part in the war between Castiel and his father. Dean, who doesn’t even understand —and never could—what unnatural feelings he stirs in Castiel. It feels like an intrusion — an exploitation, and Castiel wants nothing more than to stop—to step away before his shame spills over and taints Dean, too.

 

But it’s too late for that.

 

Gabriel raises his hand. 

 

Castiel swallows hard.

 

Jo, he thinks — trying to clear his mind of everything but her hands, cold and cracked in the raw winter air, and the gloves that would be such a comfort to her – a rare luxury. Think of Jo, and win this for her, damn you! 

 

"Lay on!"

 

The second round begins, with Castiel’s heart hammering out of his chest, but this time, Castiel takes Dean’s advice to heart. He reacts quickly to Dean’s advance and stays loose, moving with the rhythm of Dean’s attacks rather than resisting them outright. When Dean lunges, Castiel sidesteps and twists, using Dean’s momentum to shove him forward. The tables turn in an instant, and Castiel manages to pin Dean to the boards.

 

The hall explodes with cheers as Gabriel slaps the boards three times. “Round two to Castiel!”

 

Dean lies there for a moment, his grin widening. “Now you’re getting it,” he says, his voice low enough that only Castiel can hear.

 

The final round begins, and the tension in the room is palpable. Dean moves with the same quick precision, but Castiel is sharper now, anticipating his movements and staying one step ahead. The two circle each other, the crowd cheering and shouting encouragement, but all Castiel can hear is the rush of his own heartbeat.

 

Dean lunges, but Castiel counters perfectly, catching him off balance and driving him to the boards. He pins Dean, holding his breath as Gabriel slaps the boards once again.

 

The hall erupts, the crowd roaring with excitement as Gabriel declares, “Castiel is the champion!”

 

Dean lies beneath him, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softens into a grin. He winks, his voice barely audible over the noise. “Nice work — Cas, the Conqueror.”

 

Castiel hesitates, something twisting in his chest. He rises and extends a hand to Dean, who takes it with a firm grip. The moment Dean is on his feet, he leans in close, his lips brushing near Castiel’s ear as he says, “Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

 

Dean’s grin is wide and teasing as he steps back, throwing his shirt over his shoulder. Castiel’s gaze follows him, his mind spinning. Had Dean let him win? The thought gnaws at him, his triumph suddenly tinged with uncertainty. 

 

The hall buzzes with lingering excitement and Jo beams as she is presented with the prize—a pair of perfectly stitched fur lined gloves —and the room seems ready to descend into celebration.

 

But the cheers fade abruptly as a commanding voice cuts through the noise.

 

“Well, this has been quite the display.”

 

All heads turn as Lord Charles steps forward, his expression cool and unreadable as he approaches the platform. 

 

Castiel stiffens, his triumph souring as he catches the thinly veiled disapproval in his father’s tone.

 

“Four knights,” Charles continues, addressing the crowd more than Castiel. “That is what Sir Cain faced and defeated. Five, for Sir Benét. And yet, Castiel’s victory comes after facing a squire and...” He pauses, his gaze sliding pointedly to Dean, who stands near the edge of the platform. “A mere peasant.”

 

The room falls silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Dean’s shoulders tighten, his chin lifting as he meets Lord Charles’s gaze, his eyes steady and unflinching.

 

“You’re wrong, Father,” Gabriel says, stepping forward, his tone sharper than usual. “Castiel beat Benny and Sir Edgar as well.”

 

“Sir Edgar, I’ll give him, perhaps. But after wrestling and beating five opponents his defeat of Benny can hardly be called a victory.”

 

“Your pardon, my lord, but the matches are a game. Part of the revels,” Crowley reminds him. “The luck of the draw—”

 

“Luck?” Charles interrupts, his tone razor-sharp. “It was no luck. It’s clear he gave Castiel the win. Wouldn’t want to bite the hand that feeds him by overcoming and embarrassing the lord’s offspring, now would he?”

 

The flicker of doubt Dean’s wink planted in Castiel’s mind now grew into a certainty as Charles’s words dripped with disdain. His eyes flick to Dean who looks back at him, troubled. Could his father be right? Did Dean see him as nothing more than an object of pity?

 

“My lord—” Dean starts, and is immediately silenced by Crowley who puts up his hand to stop him from saying more. Crowley faces Lord Charles and opens his mouth to retort, but before he can speak, Castiel steps forward, his voice cutting through the silence.

“I’ll take on anyone here!” he says squaring his shoulders, his voice ringing with anger and defiance.

 

Gasps and murmurs ripple through the hall. Castiel raises his chin and glares at his father. Several in the crowd exchange glances of approval others of unease. For a moment, Charles says nothing, his expression unreadable as he studies his youngest son. Then, a faint, cold smile curves his lips.

 

“Anyone, you say?” Charles asks, his voice deceptively mild. His gaze sweeps the hall, landing on a figure near the edge of the crowd.

 

“Michael.”

 

The room collectively stiffens as Michael steps forward, his jaw tightening. His expression isn’t smug—more resigned, as though he already knows how this will play out. He moves with the calm precision of a man who obeys even when he doesn’t particularly want to.

 

Gabriel’s expression hardens, and he steps forward quickly. “Let’s not do this,” he says, his tone edged with warning.

 

But Charles raises a hand, silencing him. “The boy made his challenge. Let us see if he’s ready to stand among true knights.”

 

“It’s a game!” Gabriel protests. But no one seems to be listening. There’s a spark in Lord Charles eyes as he watches his eldest approach to do his bidding. 

 

Michael ascends the platform, his movements measured and deliberate, his sharp eyes locking onto Castiel. “Sure about this?”

 

Castiel swallows hard, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’m sure.”

 

Michael inclines his head, and looks to Gabriel for the signal to begin, which doesn’t come. 

 

“Well, Gabriel?” Charles demands.

 

“This is your ‘revel,’” Gabriel scoffs, spitting the word.  He crosses his arms. “You start it.”

 

“Fine!” Charles says, raising his hand. “Lay on!” he declares with a snap of his fingers.

 

Michael doesn’t lunge; he doesn’t need to. He moves with precise, methodical efficiency, his steps calculated and deliberate, each one herding Castiel like a predator closing in on its prey.

 

Castiel circles cautiously, searching for an opening. He feints to the left, trying to close the gap, but Michael sidesteps with precision, his movements fluid and controlled — effortless.

 

Gritting his teeth, Castiel lunges, aiming to grab hold of Michael’s arm, but Michael anticipates the move, pivoting sharply and locking Castiel’s wrist in an iron grip. Castiel struggles, twisting and straining to break free, but Michael shifts his weight and sweeps a leg behind Castiel’s knees, toppling him like it’s second nature.

 

The boards rattle beneath them as Castiel crashes down, and Michael follows through, pinning him with unyielding strength. Castiel thrashes, his muscles burning with the effort to break free, but it’s no use. Michael’s grip is absolute.

Charles counts to three, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Round one to Michael.”

 

The court looks on in silence, the usual cheers and applause muted. There’s a weight to the moment, as if the crowd can sense that this is more than just a match—a glimpse of some hidden fracture within the family, exposed for all to see.

 

Michael rises smoothly, stepping back with the same calm, his jaw tight, expression unreadable.

 

“Get up, Castiel,” Gabriel mutters, his voice low but edged with concern.

 

Castiel drags himself to his feet, his chest heaving. Michael waits, composed and patient, as though the outcome is already decided.

 

Charles raises his hand again. “Second round—lay on!” he snaps.

 

Michael advances this time, faster and more deliberate. Castiel tries to sidestep, but Michael anticipates the move, catching him in a grapple that feels like steel closing in. Castiel struggles, his muscles straining, but Michael’s grip is unrelenting. With a sharp twist, Michael drives him back onto the boards, pinning him with finality.

 

Lord Charles counts to three then announces “Michael is the victor.”

 

The applause is more subdued than earlier matches, the tension in the room leaving little room for excitement. 

 

Michael rises, brushing himself off with measured indifference.

 

“Well fought,” he says, his tone neutral, as though the match had been little more than a routine task.

Castiel lies there for a moment, staring at the rafters, humiliation burning in his chest. He can hear his father’s voice rising above the noise, calm and pointed.

 

“Perhaps this will remind you, Castiel,” Charles says, “that there is more to being a knight than playing at games. There’s more than one reason St. Cuthbert’s is where you belong.”

 

The words cut deeper than any blow. Castiel finally rises, his movements slow and stiff. He avoids looking at his father—or anyone else—as he steps off the platform. His jaw is clenched so tightly it aches.

 

Jo rushes forward, her expression caught between pride and concern as she accepts the gloves from Gabriel. She grips Castiel’s arm, leaning close. “It doesn’t matter. You did well,” she whispers, but her words feel hollow in the wake of his father’s disdain. “Thank you, Castiel.”

 

Anxious to lighten the mood Crowley signals several of the boys in the troupe to start up the music. As the crowd begins to disperse into smaller groups about the hall, Castiel catches Dean’s gaze. There’s no pity in Dean’s expression, only a quiet kind of understanding. He tilts his head slightly, a faint, encouraging smile on his lips, as if to echo Jo’s sentiments.

 

But the moment passes too quickly, and Castiel turns away, his chest tight with frustration and shame. The victory he’d fought so hard for now feels hollow, the weight of his father’s judgment pressing down on him, suffocating him.

 

“Well done, Michael!” Gabriel claps, his tone sharp enough to cut. “Must feel good, doesn’t it? Being father’s right hand?”

 

Michael’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Back off, brother.”

 

Gabriel tilts his head mockingly, not stepping back. “But then, you two are very much alike. Even have the same taste in women.”

 

“I said leave it!” Michael hisses. 

 

Gabriel leans in close, lowering his voice – his gaze lingering on Michael in feigned contemplation. “I always wondered why Anael would favor our father – no offense, Father — when the two of you had been such close friends as I recall.”

 

Michael moves first, shoving Gabriel violently. Gabriel, always ready, counters with a sharp uppercut to Michael’s jaw. 

 

The sound of the impact reverberates through the hall, silencing the murmuring guests. In an instant, the brothers are grappling in a full-blown brawl, their shouts echoing off the stone walls.

 

Castiel, Balthazar, and Benny spring into action, rushing to pull them apart as the guests look on in stunned silence. Michael’s fists swing wildly as Benny hooks an arm around him, dragging him back. Gabriel struggles just as fiercely, as Castiel and Balthazar grapple to restrain him.

 

“ENOUGH!” Lord Charles’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip. He rises from his seat, his face dark with fury. 

 

“Both of you, out ! Leave and cool your tempers—try to act with the decorum befitting your station!”

 

Gabriel exhales heavily, red-faced and seething, but allows Balthazar to guide him from the room. Michael wrenches free from Benny’s hold, his jaw tight with rage. He doesn’t even glance at their father. Instead, his glare locks on Castiel, who stands frozen, still catching his breath.

 

“What did he mean? Why did he—”

 

Michael cuts him off, eyeing him coldly. “Stop making a spectacle of yourself for once,” he spits, his voice low and scornful. He turns on his heel and storms from the hall, leaving Castiel standing there, stunned and humiliated.

 

“Gabriel’s drunk, as usual,” Lord Charles explains. “I think it’s time he retired as ‘Lord of Misrule.’ Revels are one thing, but I’d like to believe some dignity is left to our family once I’m gone.” 

 

Lord Charles turns to address the courtiers. “Brothers!” he shrugs, shaking his head with a weary smile. “Will sibling rivalries never cease!” he adds, raising his eyes with a chagrinned smile as if speaking to heaven.

 

His ‘prayer’ is met with a few nods and chuckles of understanding. The hall slowly begins to buzz again with murmurs and scattered laughter, the guests dismissing the drama they’ve just witnessed as an ordinary display of familial tensions.

 

His father stalks away and motions for his companions to retire with him from the hall.

 

Castiel stands motionless, staring into nothing. His chest feels tight, and his mind struggles to catch up with what just happened. Gabriel’s taunts, the violence, Michael’s anger—none of it quite makes sense, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit.

 

Michael’s parting words echo in his head: Stop making a spectacle of yourself for once.

 

The sharp sting of shame wells up, knotting with frustration, and Castiel blinks rapidly, as though the motion might clear the haze. His heart hammers in his chest, but no words come.

 

“Hey, Cas—” Dean’s voice breaks through the noise. It’s low, gentle, and searching, cutting through the haze like a thread of warmth. Castiel looks up and sees Jo, Ed, Samandriel — practically everyone — looking at him like he’s a cornered animal.

 

Castiel turns toward the voice, his face still stunned, his eyes wide and glassy. Dean steps closer, brow furrowed, his expression unreadable—concern, maybe? But Castiel wonder,  but he doesn’t pause long enough to tell. 

 

His throat tightens, his jaw clenches, and he looks away. He grabs his tunic from the nearby table and pulls it on as with quick strides, he leaves the hall. Castiel hears the heavy doors slam behind him as his boots echo down the corridor.

 

The murmurs of the hall fade into silence behind him. He doesn’t stop walking.

 

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“Cas! Hey wait!” Dean calls, following him down the corridor toward the kitchen. He reaches out, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

 

Castiel jerks away, grabbing Dean’s hand and flinging it aside as he turns to confront him.

 

“Why did you throw that match!” he spits. “I’m not a weakling, Dean! I may not have lived rough or tasted battle but I could have beaten you!”

 

Castiel turns sharply to stalk away.

 

“Who said you were weak? —- Hey!” Dean calls, quickening his pace to catch up with him again. “Hey, Cas! Wait up!” He catches Castiel’s arm. 

 

Castiel spins again, faster this time, his hand snapping out to grab Dean’s wrist. With a sharp tug, he yanks Dean off balance, the sudden force sending Dean stumbling forward into Castiel.

 

“Ungh!” Dean grunts, the air leaving his lungs as Castiel uses his momentum to shove him back, driving him into the wall.

 

Before Dean can react, Castiel slams his wrists against the wall, pinning them on either side of his head. He leans in, his face inches away, his chest heaving with anger.

 

“I don’t need—nor do I want—your pity, Dean!” he snarls, his voice a growl as his eyes burn with fury.

 

Dean’s eyes flick back and forth searching his. “Stubborn thing, you are!” Dean huffs at last. “Not everyone’s against you, you know! You don’t have to prove yourself to the whole damn world!”

 

“Don’t I?” Castiel seethes as he presses Dean’s wrists harder into the wall, thinking of the man’s rebuke of him in the courtyard the day before.

 

Dean shakes his head, his body trapped against Castiel’s but he doesn’t back down from Castiel’s glare. “Not to me!” he fires back.

 

Castiel narrows his eyes, searching Dean’s face for any sign of derision, but finds none.

 

Dean swallows. “Not to me, Cas,” he says more softly. “Not to anyone…..Just to yourself. It’s you, you need to convince! ”

 

His brows knit — the truth of Dean’s words strike him like a blow. He closes his eyes and lets out a ragged breath. He bends his head with the weight of it and feels Dean’s forehead rest against his.

 

The hammer of Dean’s pulse under his thumbs is solid — steady. He’s suddenly conscious of the hard line of Dean’s torso pressed against his, as he breathes in his scent.

 

“You were perfect in there…” Dean assures. “Yeah, maybe I underestimated you, but you won fair and square…”

 

Castiel’s still trying to steady his breath. He relaxes his grip on Dean’s wrists, but the man does nothing to move or push him off. His hands fall away, slipping to rest on Dean’s shoulders. 

 

“That’s the real problem, Cas….people underestimate you, and somehow you’ve come to believe them.” Dean's hands slip behind him to Castiel's back, barely a touch, but rubbing gently up and down. “Don’t let him tell you who you are,” Dean says softly. “It doesn’t matter what your father thinks. Only what you think. You matter, Castiel.” 

 

He wants it to be true.

 

Castiel’s eyes are closed, but he can feel Dean’s breath, soft against his skin, his hands gentle up and down his back, and the line of Dean’s body against him. Castiel wants to melt against him —to brush his lips along the curve of Dean's neck, lay a kiss in every dip and hollow — share his warmth.

 

Castiel is tired, but desperate to keep his emotions in check —-his chest stutters with the effort. His heart is raw from near constant aching, and he needs to—- he needs to know what this is.

 

“Dean,” he murmurs, soft and low.

 

“Shhhhh,” Dean whispers, his hand carding gently through Castiel’s hair, the touch steady, grounding. “I’ve got you, sweetheart —you’re okay.” His other hand presses firmly against Castiel’s back, holding him like a lifeline. “You’re perfect.”

 

Sweetheart?

 

Castiel opens his eyes to find Dean’s, and they’re dark — dark in a way that sparks through him like flint on steel, igniting something instinctive—a need so raw it pulls the air from his lungs. His breath hitches. Dean’s hand is still in his hair – his fingers so gentle ... a kind of gentleness Castiel hasn’t felt in a very long time.

 

Dean’s hand slides lower to rest at the curve of his waist. “Yeah,” Dean whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible. “That’s it… I’ve got you.” He leans in slightly, his breath warm and steady against Castiel’s lips. They’re so close now, their foreheads brushing, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Castiel can feel Dean’s nose graze his, the softest touch, and his chest clenches tight with longing.

 

But then, voices and footsteps echo in the long stone corridor and Castiel blinks as if waking from a dream.

 

What are you doing?--- Merde! What are you doing? He thinks, stepping back sharply. 

 

“Forgive me,” Castiel mutters hastily, eyes dropping to the floor at their feet. His heart is pounding and “I—- I didn’t mean—-” he stammers, running a hand against the back of his neck. 

 

The voices are almost on them. Ed and Harry round the corner. Castiel casts one look at them, then turns quickly leaving Dean to stare after him as he heads down the corridor. 

 

He pushes through the kitchen, slipping out the side door into the stable yard, where the icy air slams into him like a wall. He doubles over, hands on his knees, sucking in great gasps of air as panic claws at his chest. His heart feels like it might hammer its way out of his ribs, and the echoes of Dean’s voice— You’re perfect, I’ve got you —won’t stop pounding in his skull.

 

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He goes where he always goes when he needs peace: the stables. He could use a chat with Gadreel, just some of the older man’s stories—anything to distract him from the memory of Dean’s soft words and soothing touch, the warmth of Dean’s breath on his skin. But Gadreel has left the stable boy in charge, and the boy has drifted to sleep under a blanket, half buried in a pile of fresh hay.

 

Castiel is tired, anxious, and confused, but Gwenhwyfar greets him with a soft nicker as always. He doesn’t have the words or presence of mind to greet her properly, instead grabbing a brush and focusing on the steady rhythm of brushing her down. The repetitive motion is soothing for both him and the horse, something to focus on while he tries to piece together what just happened. He moves the brush gently over her back, again and again in gentle circles, just like —

 

No.

 

Gwenhwyfar lets out a contented huff, turning to nuzzle against his chest, and everything clicks.

 

I know all about horses. I’m damn good with them too…

 

Dean’s father was a farrier, and in the wake of Castiel’s rage, he was doing what he knew best.

Dean was gentling him, not seducing him. That’s all it was—steady hands and a soothing voice. A farrier’s calm coaxing of a furious colt, nothing more.

Castiel presses his lips together, his grip tightening on the brush. 

 

That’s all it was.

 

 

“That’s a pretty mount you have there,” a gruff voice calls from outside the stall, forcing him to ignore the hollow ache brought on by his recent epiphany. It’s the Benedictine, Brother Robert — Bobby, Gabriel had called him. “She yours?”

 

Castiel’s gaze shifts back to Gwenhwyfar’s muzzle as he strokes her. “Not for long it seems.”

 

“Heh,” Bobby chuckles. “Yeah I guess technically she’d be the Priory’s. But no doubt she’d answer to you best.”

 

Castiel narrows his eyes on the old monk. “What do you mean – answer to me? You mean I could bring her?”

 

“Well how else are ya gonna go all that way? Walk? I was just asking if you’d have to return her anywhere or if you’re bringing her to the Priory.”

 

Despite his lingering despair, for the first time in days, a flicker of hope rises in Castiel’s chest. “The prior would allow that? Could I still take care of her? Would the priory keep her?”

 

Bobby snorts, “Are you kidding? With the cost of horses these days? She’d have to do the work of the monastery a’course. We’ve got medicine to run, supplies to haul. I brew remedies for some of the sick folk in the villages. Someone’s gotta take ‘em there from time to time."

 

Castiel’s hand stills on Gwenhwyfar’s neck. "You think they’d let me do that?"

 

Bobby eyes him, thoughtful. "Maybe. Better than sweeping floors, don’t you think? You and this mare seem steady enough for the work."

 

Castiel presses his forehead to her neck and sighs relief, one arm wraps under her neck, the other hand rests on her mane. He must look ridiculous — he doesn’t care. 

 

She’d still be his. Maybe not officially, but in every way that really counts. 

 

Castiel lets the thought settle. Delivering medicines and supplies. Gwenhwyfar wouldn’t be sold. He’d have a purpose. 

 

"It wouldn’t be so bad," he murmurs, half to himself.

 

Bobby gives a small grunt. "Not if you make yourself useful."

 

Castiel smiles as Gwenhwyfar lets out a soft huff of breath, nuzzling against his chest, as if even she senses the change in him. 

 

“Now, you wouldn’t have seen that brother of yours, would you?”

 

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “Will the priory really void the deed?”

 

“Sadly, yes. Unless I can get through that thick skull of his and convince him to do right by himself and his boys. All that sacrifice— would be a shame if it was all for nuthin. If you see him, tell him I just wanna talk over a jug of ale. No manor talk, just two old soldiers catching up. Well, one old soldier and a baby-knight.” Brother Robert smirks. He tips his head, then heads back out of the stables. 

 

Castiel hugs Gwenhwyfar’s neck once more, his own hope tempered with despair for Gabriel. His brother was always a bit wild, but never so reckless, and it seems he was always the one protecting Castiel, not the other way around. Gabriel’s been away for so long — he feels he barely knows, and certainly hardly understands his brother anymore. How can someone who’s never tasted battle — never suffered the death of a child hope to counsel someone who has?

 

Castiel tiredly stumbles toward his shared bedchamber with no answers, only a determination to try. He’s at the door before he remembers his new sleeping arrangements. He steps inside to gather his things. The room is empty, Samandriel and the others must still be in the great hall, but none of his possessions are where he left them. 

 

“Excuse me, Master Castiel?” 

 

He turns to see a boy of eleven or twelve, one of Mildred’s kitchen boys ducking his head respectfully. 

 

“I’m supposed to tell you that a servant came to bring your things to your new quarters. Master Samandriel and the others showed her what to take.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel nods. He hesitates, thinking of Jo and wanting to make sure she is alright. He assumes she is fine, but he left abruptly, thinking only of himself. “Can you perhaps tell me where I can find Jo?”

 

“Mistress Jo and Mistress Mildred are both a’bed by now, my lord. You wan’t I should wake them?” he asks.

 

“No. No, that's alright. I can speak with them in the morning. Thank you,” Castiel nods to the boy then turns and heads down the corridor to the guest hall. 

 

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He nears his chamber but his steps grow slow as Amara’s voice carries through the corridor, soft and melodic. He doesn’t want to listen, but he can’t help it. Then, a word, moaned with pleasure.

 

“Dean.”

 

Her voice lingers on the name, warm and inviting. Laughter follows, hers first, then a deeper, masculine chuckle. He stiffens. His stomach knots, hot and tight.

 

He tells himself to keep walking.   It’s none of his business. None. 

 

But his feet are rooted outside her door anyway, his breath short and sharp. A muffled word from within—was it “darling”? He can’t make it out, and he hates himself for trying.

 

Before he can stop himself, his fist slams against the door again and again as if he’s there to raise an alarm of attack.

 

The laughter inside goes silent. 

 

Castiel freezes, blood rushing to his ears.  

 

What in God’s name did he just do?  Now what?!

 

He’s already stepping back, cursing himself for his idiocy, when the door creaks open just enough for Amara to appear, her sharp eyes narrowing as they land on him.

 

“Castiel?” she drawls, her brow arching in amusement or irritation—he can’t tell which. “What’s the matter?”

 

He struggles to find his voice, his mind scrambling for a reason—any reason—for why he’d pounded on her door like a madman.

 

“I… I thought I heard—” What? Someone in distress? He straightens, forcing his tone to cool. “I came to let you know that Father wishes to speak with you.” An awkward moment stretches as Castiel is pinned by her dubious gaze. but her eyes just narrow on him further.  

 

“Really?”

 

“Yup,” he adds, popping the p. “Immediately,” he adds, with a quick bob of his head as if that might make it more believable. 

 

Christ god, what is he doing? Amara’s not a fool, but saint’s in heaven, Castiel is!

 

Her gaze lingers on him. “How dutiful of you, Nephew,” she murmurs, before glancing over her shoulder into the room. “Please inform my dear brother however that unless he is on his last breath, whatever it is can wait until morning. I’ve had a long day and I need to unwind.” Her lips curve in a faint smirk, as if she sees through him.

 

Of course she does, you absolute assbutt. And now he will too.

 

The door closes firmly, but not before Castiel catches the glimpse of red…a tunic discarded and draped over a chair near the hearth. 

 

His heart sinks. 

 

He turns on his heel and stalks down the hall, his hands trembling at his sides, his mind spinning.

 

It’s none of your business. None of it, he tells himself as he closes himself in his private room – the one he’d wanted so badly. If only he’d stayed in the crowded storage room with the others, he laments. He would never have seen. He could pretend Dean was asleep somewhere with the rest of the troupe. Then perhaps he could sleep tonight.  

 

There’s a small fire banked in the hearth. Castiel kicks off his boots and pulls off his tunic and chausses, electing to sleep in his linen shirt. He practically falls into bed, and lays there, watching the coals glowing in the hearth, but the fire and the down bedding do nothing to warm him, the soft mattress — nothing to ease the ache twisting in his chest as he tries not to think about what’s happening a few rooms over.

 

He turns on his other side and notices a pale white shape in the dark on the table next to his bed. The curve of white petals in the near dark. With everything that happened he’d forgotten about his rose. The servant must have placed it there. 

 

His throat tightens as he stares at the bloom. 

 

Where shall the worthy find you? The one who deserves the desire of their heart? He envisions Rowena asking the question of the blossom, her lilting voice, clear in his mind.

 

But he’s not worthy. He’s never been worthy — the nature of his desire, the very reason.

 

Rowena was wrong. 

 

“She made a mistake,” he says to the delicate bloom. He reaches out a hand, tracing along the petal with his fingertip. It’s velvety smooth —  plump and soft.  

 

He closes his eyes as he strokes the petal and imagines the feel of soft, Cupid’s-bow lips — the need he’d felt as he let himself go and they breathed the same air, Dean’s hands soothing him — his soft breath against Castiel’s skin — ‘ Sweetheart.’ 

 

To have that again—to know it was real—his chest aches for it.

 

She made a mistake. Castiel was never meant to find this bloom. Of this, he’s sure —because the one thing he wants is something he knows he can’t have. 

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Notes:

I really hope you're enjoying this! If there was a particular scene you liked, please let me know. I love to hear from you --it means a lot!

Next chapter is still in the writing phase but when it posts you will finally get a little from Dean's point of view as well.

Chapter 10: The Fifth Day of Christmas - Part I - Fractured

Notes:

Thank you for all of your kind comments! And thank you so much to Lexi and Sarah for beta-ing! TWs - talk of child loss, Dean's negative self-talk.

 

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The Fifth Day of Christmas - December 29th - 1196

 

Castiel awakens to a soft knocking on the door to his room. Three in succession, so soft, at first he thinks he may be imagining it, but then it repeats….once…twice. He sits up and rubs his eyes. Judging by the state of the fireplace embers he must have been asleep for a few hours. The knock comes again. Castiel pulls on his chausses, and goes to the door. 

 

“Who’s there?” he asks.

 

“Castiel?.”

 

Jo?

 

Castiel unbolts the door and in the dim remnants of torchlight of the corridor sees Jo standing there in her chemise, clutching a shawl around her shoulders.

 

“Jo? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

 

“It’s Gabriel,” she says quietly. “He’s— well you’d better come with me.”

 

Castiel hurries to pull on his boots and follows her down the twisting stone stairs to the main floor and down the north corridor to the kitchen.

 

“We managed to get him in here by the hearth but he’s in a bad way. I didn’t know who else to wake. Sir Balthazar came in looking for him earlier but—-”

 

“No,” Castiel says, spotting Gabriel now, lying down by the kitchen hearth, murmuring something indecipherable. 

 

Rowena is next to him. She sits on the floor, his head is in her lap. “Shhhhhh,” she soothes, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault…” she’s whispering. “It’s not.”

 

“No, you did the right thing coming to me,” Castiel tells Jo as they approach Rowena. “What happened?”

 

“He was outside for a long time. Young Edwin found him near the outer door of the chapel and came to get me,” Jo says nodding toward the boy adding fuel to the hearth. “We had to drag him in, together.”

 

The next moment Castiel is on the floor next to his brother. “What’s wrong with him? Was he attacked?” he asks frantically checking Gabriel over for wounds.

 

“No, dearie,” Rowena assures. “Just deliriously drunk. I think the cold has got to his mind somewhat as well.”

 

“What—what do you mean? Will he be okay?” 

 

“He needs warming quickly, and fluids and rest. Can you help us get him to his room? Quickly now!”

 

Castiel begins to pull his brother up. Jo and Rowena support Gabriel’s dead weight as Castiel bends, shifting his brother’s weight onto his shoulder and stands. Gabriel mumbles something, trying to wrestle away but then gives up, going limp again with something sounding like a muffled laugh. 

 

“I don’t want anyone else to see him like this,” Castiel says, his voice a bit strained under Gabriel’s weight. “Jo, go ahead and make sure there’s no one ahead of us.” 

 

She nods, heading out of the kitchen as Castiel follows. Rowena instructs Edwin to fetch a bag of herbs for her from the troupe’s lodgings, then hurries to catch up. 

 

A few minutes later, having encountered no one in the hall, they lay Gabriel down on his own bed. The fire is banked, but Jo quickly tends it, adding some kindling to build it up.  “I’ll fetch some warming stones and a kettle,” she says, leaving Castiel and Rowena alone with Gabriel, who is murmuring something unintelligible.

 

“You said it isn’t his fault,” Castiel says, eyeing Rowena as he pulls off Gabriel’s boots and unbuckles the leather belt that holds his dagger. “What isn’t his fault?”

 

Rowena sighs, “Gabriel blames himself,” she says simply, eyeing his brother with a look of pity as she smoothes the hair from his brow. 

 

Castiel’s brow furrows, “For what, though?” 

 

She looks up at him now, “His wife and child. For their deaths.”

 

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. He was in the Holy Land when it happened. The same illness that took them took my mother. It took many other lives as well. How could Gabriel be at fault for their deaths?”

 

Rowena turns her focus back to Gabriel, continuing to smooth her fingers along his hair. She shrugs. “I don’t know. Though I do know that men both witness and commit all kinds of horrors in war. Perhaps he feels he’s being punished for some deed.”

 

“The land — Gabriel went on Crusade to obtain land to support Rachel and their children,” Castiel tells her. “I was young, but I remember his marriage to Lady Rachel was… unexpected. They eloped. Our father was furious. I didn’t understand it at the time my mother said our father’d had other plans for him. Gabriel was gone after that.” 

 

He remembered it now — asking his mother why Gabriel had gone. ‘To seek his own fortune for himself and his family. We must pray that God takes care of them, Castiel,’ his mother had said. 

 

Before he can think on it further, Edwin arrives with a satchel, followed by Jo, carrying a small kettle and a leather bag of her own filled with warming stones. Jo arranges the stones near the flames and sets the kettle on a small hook over the fire. 

 

“Row” Gabriel mutters as Rowena rises from where she sits on the edge of his bed – his hand jerking toward her but missing.

 

“Hush, love-” She chides, grasping his hand. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, you foolish man.”

 

“Keep that fire fed, lad. That kettle needs to boil,” she tells Edwin, taking her bag to a table near the hearth and pulling out several bottles and bunches of dried herbs wrapped in linen. Edwin, still panting from the effort of his run to the outbuildings and back, moves wordlessly to obey.

 

“No, Edwin,” Jo orders. “I will take care of things here. You go get the kitchen prepared for the morning. And not a word to anyone of this. Understand?”

 

“Yes, mistress Jo,” the boy nods before hurrying off. 

 

Jo adds more fuel and adjusts the height of the kettle. Some moments pass – Gabriel’s mutterings and the crackling of the fire, the only sounds breaking the silence between them. Castiel is wrapping another blanket over his brother while Jo uses an iron poker to shift one of the stones far enough out of the hearth to pick it up with a large square of cut wool. She places the wrapped stone at the foot of the bed, beneath the covers near Gabriel’s feet. 

 

“It’s not that warm yet, but it’s a start,” she says. “It can be switched out in a short while for a warmer one. 

 

Rowena is crushing some dried flowers with a small mortar and pestle. “That’s perfect,” she tells Jo, glancing back at the fire.  “I can take it from here. Best you attend to your duties so there’s no chatter among the household servants.”

 

She was right, Castiel thinks. Getting openly drunk and indulging oneself in the revels was one thing, but being found half frozen in the night and delirious with cold and drink was quite another. The household and the guests should not find out about this. 

 

Jo glances to Castiel for confirmation. He nods. “It’s alright, Jo. I will — we will take things from here,” he corrects, glancing at Rowena. “You have your own work to do, and it’s best that nothing is seen to be amiss.” 

 

She dips her head and turns to leave but he catches her arm. “Thank you.”

 

She smiles, sadly, knees bending in a swift curtsy, then takes her leave.

 

Rowena kneels by the fireplace, sprinkling crushed leaves and small twigs into the small kettle. 

 

“Willow bark for his head, yarrow to chase the cold from his bones, and angelica for his spirit.” She smiles weakly as she adds the herbs, letting the steam rise. “And honey, of course. Even a scoundrel like your brother deserves a little sweetness now and then.”

 

“Row–” Gabriel moans again– this time coughing and making a retching noise. Castiel rushes to his side, grabbing the chamber pot and turning him to the side of the bed just in time for him to spew the contents of his stomach into the pot. Rowena attends with a cloth to wipe his face as Castiel covers the pot and sets it back under the bed.

 

“He can’t be left like this,” she says, her eyes meeting Castiel’s as they settle him on his side. “I can tend to him, but I would need you to tell Crowley where I am, and that Gabriel will not be attending today’s events. Can you do that?” she asks, moving to sit again, behind him at the head of the bed, her hands gently smoothing back Gabriel’s hair. 

 

“Of course,” Castiel nods. He watches her a moment, as she tends to his brother. There’s a tenderness and familiarity in her eyes. 

 

“You didn’t just meet on the way here, did you?” he asks. Gabriel had made it sound like he encountered the troupe on the way to the manor and came up with the role of ‘the Lord of Misrule,’ usurping Crowley’s usual job of leading the festivities on a whim. 

 

“No,” she smiles sadly. “I’ve known your brother for nigh on a year now. He has, as you know, been frequenting the estates of other lords, other revels and celebrations.” Rowena smooths the hair once again from Gabriel’s face before rising and returning to the kettle to give it a stir. “Hasn’t been this bad in quite some time I believe. I suspect that encounter with the Benedictine put him off.”

 

“Brother Robert?” Castiel asks.

 

“Aye,” she nods. 

 

Castiel thinks about that – the way Gabriel’s mood turned from jovial to angered so quickly at the mention of returning to his lands. He wonders how Rowena seems to know so much about his brother.  

 

“Are you and my brother — umm,” Castiel clears his throat, unsure of how to put it delicately.

 

“Lovers, dearie?” she shakes her head. “No. But it wasn’t long after I met Gabriel that we discovered we shared a common loss.”

 

Castiel’s brow furrows, then he remembers. “You lost your husband.”

 

Rowena’s eyebrows rise.

 

“He told me,” Castiel explains, nodding toward his brother. “How you came to be with this troupe of all men, I mean. I’m sorry.” 

 

There’s brief a glimmer in her eye that catches the firelight. She blicks it away.

 

“My husband, and our wee bairn, Oscar,” she lifts her chin, her jaw tightening, as if refusing to be defeated by the loss she’s suffered. 

 

“Oh!” Castiel says, eyes widening, “Oh, I’m so sorry…I mean, he hadn’t told me that, that you lost your child as well, I mean.”

 

Rowena hums as if she understands. She turns and ladles some of the brew into a wooden cup. “Perhaps because it makes him think of the loss of his own wee bairn.” She huffs, shaking her head. “Men are supposed to keep their hearts locked behind stone barricades. But no matter how precarious life is, no matter how stalwart the man, there’s no pain to compare to the loss of one’s child.”

 

She rises from the fire with the cup and sits on the edge of the bed, near Gabriel’s head, testing the brew with her finger. 

 

“It needs to cool a bit before he drinks it,” she tells him. “He is looking better already. No sense both of us fretting over him like a mother hen. I promise you, I won’t leave him until he is out of danger. Perhaps you can ask that kitchen lad, Edwin, to bring up some plain porridge and bread. It will do good to get something other than ale in his stomach.”

 

“I will,” Castiel promises. He sits for a moment at the edge of the bed and takes Gabriel’s hand. Since the retching incident, he’s seemed to have settled into a light sleep. “I’m here Gabriel,” he says quietly. “I— I can’t fix this. But I want to help.” He squeezes Gabriel’s hand, then stands, addressing Rowena. “I’ll have Edwin bring something for you as well, then let Crowley know. I’ll be back to check on him in a while, then. Thank you.”

 

Rowena nods, her hand once again smoothing gently through Gabriel’s hair.

 

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The early morning light creeps through the cracks in the kitchen door as he enters. Though Mildred has not yet arrived there are more servants now, getting ready for the morning baking. He finds Edward and charges him with bringing some food and bread up to Gabriel’s room. 

 

The stress and worry of the last hour is catching up with him, making his head swim, making the kitchen seem overly warm. He exits through the side door into the courtyard. The morning air hits him like a plunge in cold water, but it's exactly what he needs. He stands outside the kitchen gate taking a few deep breaths, blowing out frost with each exhale. The side door opens and it’s Jo.

 

She wraps her arms around him and he nearly melts into her warmth. He hugs her back, appreciative of her care and support. How he’s missed Jo these past years!

 

“He’ll be alright Castiel,” she soothes, stepping back and dips her head to catch his eyes, looking up at him with a soft smile. 

 

“I hope so,” Castiel sighs. 

 

Jo rubs her hands up and down his arms to warm him. It’s only then he realizes he has no cloak, not that he cares much at the moment.

 

“I have to find Crowley, to tell him,” he says. “Thank you Jo, for finding me. For everything.”

 

She nods, “You can always depend on me, Castiel.”

 

He smiles, “Thank you, he says again. Her hand trails over his arm to his hand, as she takes her leave, and with one last squeeze of her hand, she heads back to her work in the kitchen. 

 

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Dean peeks from behind the heavy wooden door to Amara’s room into the corridor, and finding it empty, slips out quietly. The torches in the corridor have burned down to nothing and his eyes take a moment to adjust. Despite the darkness, there’s a faint light down the hallway where the stairs lead to the main entry of the manor house. Dawn is nearing—the soft morning light making its way past the edges of the wicket gate that lets in the sparse traffic of the manor's servants and guards as they begin to prepare for the day. 

 

He pauses at the top of the stairs, listening for any movement below. Servants and guards will keep their peace about it, but he doesn’t want to be seen by any of Lord Charles’ family or guests. He’s pretty sure that Ed guy is the reason Lisa, the kitchen maid, looks at him now like he’s dirt beneath her shoe. Not much he can do about that now. He’d tried to warn her that he was not someone to set one’s heart upon. 

 

It’s rare that Dean pursues something for himself, but sometimes on the first night in a new place he can find someone who piques his interest and tempt them into a bit of fun — some kissing, some touching —maybe if he’s lucky, a bit more. Something just for himself, before the demands of the job take over. 

 

Lisa had been generous with her affections. He’d thought there was an understanding that their romp together that first night was just a playful diversion — no expectations — just a chance for some mutual comfort between the demands of their work. That’s all he’d wanted it to be. He’d thought she understood that’s all it could be. 

 

His job was to raise spirits, not dishearten them.

 

Lately, it seemed that he sucked at his profession, and if he wasn’t more careful the whole troupe would end up paying the price. 

 

What was he thinking, goading the lord’s son? Who was he to have or express any opinion about anything to do with the goings on of this place? His job was to smile, and sing prettily and tell tales of chivalry and love, so that the maidens and matrons would swoon. 

 

The matrons, especially —for it was the married, or widowed ladies who most often had wealth to spare, and a will to spare it for a chance to feel young and desirable again.

 

And Dean, if nothing else, was an expert charmer. Ladies, lords, male, female — it didn’t matter as long as they could pay.

 

It wasn’t strictly his job. Crowley never explicitly required that of him or any of the others, but Dean knew the deal. They were a family, their little troupe. A family on the margins of society, always wondering where the next job, or meal, or bed would come from. 

 

No — Crowley never required it of them, but that didn’t mean the extra income from side work wasn’t welcome. And Dean needed the extra coin now, more than ever. 

 

Even so, it was nice to dream of something different—something real—something untainted by money and exchange. 

 

Maybe that’s why he’d fixated on the lord’s son so quickly that first night.

 

Sat amongst the other courtiers, amidst a group of lowly squires, there’d been nothing to signal to Dean that he was the lord’s son at all. Most men and women of rank who found Dean attractive leered at him, their desire blunt and unapologetic. Power and wealth afforded them most anything they wanted. They looked at him like hunters settling on their prey, or in the case of Amara, a connoisseur admiring fine merchandise before a purchase. 

 

Not the lord’s son, though. When Dean’s gaze, drawn to his tousled dark hair and sapphire-blue eyes, met his the young man looked away shyly, almost fearfully. In a breath Dean was back in his fourteen-year-old skin, feeling all at once the thrill and wonder — the spark of fear and fascination that coursed through him the first time his body reacted to the yearning gaze of another young man.

 

The blush that rose to Castiel’s cheeks, the hard bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, the rush to look away—to hide himself—there was a guilty kind of innocence there that spoke to Dean. It was a look he immediately understood, and for once, he knew what it felt like to be the one on the hunt.

 

The sound of the young man’s voice rumbled, deep and rich as he talked with his companions. Dean stole glances when he could, and caught the young man doing the same. 

 

He played his oud and sang to the crowd with practiced ease, but all the while imagining himself leading the young man to some dark corner when the evening wore down to steal a quiet moment. Dean would introduce himself and smile. Perhaps he’d share a joke or some self-deprecating tale that would make the young man smile and laugh in return. He imagined what it would be like — a smile to light his soft blue eyes, and his laugh, a nervous huff of breath — warm velvet against Dean’s skin as he leaned in to kiss him.

 

Dean found himself wanting to chase, to shield, to shelter—to protect the young man from whatever and whoever put that fearful look in his sapphire eyes. To nurture their spark into a flame. To show him he needn’t hide.

 

Not from Dean.

But then Gabriel made his grand entrance, and it was revealed the lowly squire his heart had marked as someone worth chasing was no lowly squire at all, but the son of Lord Charles himself. Suddenly Dean realised how foolish he’d been, to think that such a young man would want anything to do with him. 

 

When the revels wound down on Christmas night he held himself back, as Gabriel’s brother —  ‘Castiel’ and his mates headed off to bed. 

 

Lisa’s attentions were not a wholly unwelcome consolation prize after that - at first. But later witnessing her treatment of Castiel would sour him on that. The first time was when the young man accidentally stumbled upon the two of them in the kitchen. He’d stuttered and grasped for some semblance of an excuse to be there, making him look quite ridiculous.

 

Ridiculously adorable. 

 

Most young men of rank wouldn’t bat an eye to see servants in a compromising position — though they might seek to reprimand, or even worse, grab a piece of the action. But Castiel had been embarrassed. As if he was the one who’d done something untoward by intruding…as if he was attempting to preserve Lisa’s dignity - their dignity. The next day, after she dared mock Castiel for it in the corridor during the brief plague scare, Dean wondered how she dared be so insolent to a son of the house.

 

But then, after the unfortunate incident in the barn Gadreel had explained everything. Gadreel, who assured Dean that the rage and venom he’d just witnessed was not characteristic of the ‘young master,’ and that Castiel was reeling from the blow of discovering his father’s intentions to send him into the cloister. That lord Charles had decided to amend the sin of his transgressions with Castiel’s mother by offering up the fruit of their union to God. 

 

Dean’s anger at Castiel’s behavior and claim of the horse shifted swiftly to anger for him. Even Dean’s own father, imperfect as he was, would never have sold Dean or Sammy off for his own benefit.

 

The news that the deal was off stung badly —they needed a horse. Sammy couldn’t keep up in the winter air, and the effort was wearing him down, making him sicker, weaker. The money they’d been given in compensation wasn’t nearly enough to buy one. The offer of Gwenhwyfar by Michael had been an unexpected surprise to the troupe. He should have known it was too good to be true—of course it was. 

 

Michael had bargained with something he considered no loss to himself. In hindsight, the whole prospect made Dean angry. The casual cruelty of men in power toward those they considered beneath them was all too familiar to Dean. That a man of means would treat his own brother that way was abhorrent.

 

Still… Dean should have left it at that. What was he thinking bringing the man an ale? What was he hoping for? Nothing really, he thinks now, even as the question presents itself. It was more an act of solidarity at the time, presumptuous as it was to think a noble, even a bastard one, would appreciate solidarity from the likes of someone like him. But strangely….Castiel did.  

 

He’d smiled and huffed that velvety rich laugh, just as Dean had imagined it.

 

“Hello, Dean. I’m Castiel.”

 

Dean feels a pleasant buzzing in his chest as he remembers it. No pretense… no pulling of rank this time, just two men sharing a quiet moment together. It felt strangely comfortable—and the rich resonance of Castiel’s voice? Well, that’s something that Dean could get used to.

 

Too bad he’d been called away so soon— a ‘private performance’ for Lady Amara. 

 

But the troupe needs the money. Dean needs the money, now more than ever. And Dean will do whatever it takes to make sure they have enough for a horse — even an old one — a donkey if need be, before the next big move. 

 

In any case, it’s clear to him now, despite what he thought he saw in Castiel’s eyes that first night in the Great Hall, he’d been mistaken. The way Castiel sang for Jo, the way they laughed and smiled together, the way he’d wrestled for those gloves for her — it must be the reason he was so upset at the prospect of a warm bed and steady meals in a monastery.

 

God’s teeth!

 

Dean called him ‘Sweetheart.’

 

He winces, thinking of his words —his actions last night in the corridor. He’d wanted to comfort Castiel after his father and brother had treated him so cruelly, but he’d taken things too far…let his own attraction get the better of him. He’d been witness to Castiel and Jo’s relationship long enough to know that he was her sweetheart. He’d never — not in a lifetime — be Dean’s. 

 

But then Castiel had grabbed him—pinned him hard against the wall, his body flush against Dean’s, wrists trapped in a firm grip. Fire burned in Castiel’s eyes as he looked at him.

 

And Dean lost all ability to reason.

 

The lie slipped out so easily then—because it was simpler than the bewildering truth. Dean had thrown the last match.

 

And Dean never throws anything.

 

He’d fought Castiel properly in the first two rounds, delighting in the quick sweep of the legs that brought him victory in the first, and feeling something close to pride when Castiel came back and took the second with genuine strength and skill. But at the last, Dean let himself go down without much of a fight. He let Castiel take the win.

 

Not because he thought Castiel couldn’t win—no, Dean knew full well Castiel was strong, had felt that strength firsthand. And the distraction of watching him strip off his shirt, muscles flexing in the torchlight, had certainly done Dean no favors. But even that wasn’t the real reason.

 

Maybe it was because if anyone was going to win a pair of fur-lined gloves it sure as hell shouldn’t be Amara. Maybe it was because Dean saw Amara and Lord Charles for what they were– people whose wealth and power always got them what they wanted, no matter the expense to others. 

 

Or maybe it was because if he had the choice —he would have championed Castiel instead. Not because Castiel was weak or needed him, but because Dean wanted to be the one in his corner. Because in another life—one where Dean wasn’t bought and paid for, where he had the right to want things—he wouldn’t be letting Amara take him to bed each night for coin.

 

He’d be standing beside someone like Castiel instead.

 

But all he’d managed to do was wound the man’s pride.

Dean steps into the frigid air of the courtyard and pulls his threadbare cloak around him more tightly. 

 

Rowena will be making a meager breakfast for the others by now. He needs to check on Sam, but he’d give anything to heat some water over the fire and wash away the lingering feel and scent of sex from his body before he goes to work for the day. There’s a well on the way to the outbuildings, but he needs a bucket first. Dean turns back toward the kitchen door to procure one. 

 

As if Heaven means to punish him by compounding his embarrassment, there at the side door that leads to the kitchen are Castiel and Jo. She’s hugging him. She steps out of his embrace, runs her hands along his arms, and smiles up at him. 

 

As Dean watches, his hand drifts to the feather hanging from his neck.

 

“—Perhaps your troupe can find a use for it—for one of their costumes.’

 

Just a kind gesture to the troupe. Nothing more. 

 

Dean feels like an idiot.

 

He holds back, waiting for them to break apart and go their separate ways before he continues on toward the kitchen. If he’s being honest, he never had a chance—for so many reasons. Even if class didn’t matter, even if Castiel were inclined toward men, or like Dean, toward either sex—even if he and Jo weren’t sweethearts, it wouldn’t matter. He’d still have no chance.

 

Castiel is sweet and valiant —pure of heart in some strange but refreshingly innocent way. He seems oblivious to the class differences that men of station wield to exploit people like Dean and Sam.

 

In the rareness of it, Dean forgot his place. He'd let his foolish mind dream of being Castiel’s protector....his knight.

 

But Castiel needs no protector.

 

And knights—

 

Knights don’t sell their bodies to the highest bidder. 

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Notes:

I hope you're enjoying this! If there was a particular scene you liked, please let me know. I love to hear from you!

Chapter 11: The Fifth Day of Christmas - Part II - For Want of a Shoe

Notes:

I appreciate the subs, the comments, and the kudos so much! Thank you for following this story!

Also - forgive the bad rhyming up ahead - it's Dean's spur-of-the-moment attempt and he (and I) know it's pretty bad but that's part of the fun. Cas's verses for Dean are to the tune of Rose Red.

 

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Jo steps back toward the kitchen door, one hand sliding down Castiel’s arm, and even from where Dean stands, he can see the squeeze before she lets go and reenters the kitchen.

 

Castiel is walking toward him now.

 

Dean tenses as Castiel approaches, his stride fast and purposeful.

 

“I’m to relay a message to you,” Castiel calls when he’s close. There’s weariness in his eyes, dark beneath them like he didn’t sleep well.

 

Dean straightens and steps toward him. “What is it?”

 

“It’s actually for Crowley.” Castiel glances back toward the manor. “Rowena. She wants Crowley to know that Gabriel won’t be involved in the activities today. And that she—well, Gabriel is not well, and Rowena is with him.”

 

“Oh,” Dean sighs. “The women of the manor were promised a scavenger hunt, and Gabriel was supposed to lead them through the woods. He’s the only one who knows the area.” He rubs a hand over his face. “We’ll have to come up with something else to replace it.” 

 

It’s a setback. They’re paid to entertain for all of Yule, and if they don’t deliver, it could cost them—maybe even part of their fee.

 

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks. 

 

Dean looks up. He hadn’t realized the lord’s son was still watching him. He forces a smile, “Not to worry, Cas. I mean, m’lord.” 

 

For some reason, he adds the honorific. He isn’t sure why, but it feels appropriate now, like something he should have been doing all along. Who was he to be so familiar to a noble’s son, bastard or not? 

 

Castiel looks away and something in his expression changes, concern shifting to displeasure. 

 

Dean rushes to reassure him “I promise the ladies will be entertained. Crowley and I…we’ll come up with something.”

“I didn’t—” Castiel hesitates, then glances toward the stable before looking back at Dean and starting again. “I was just going to say, I don’t know anything about scavenger hunts, but I know the lands. If you need help, I could…perhaps…”

 

Dean perks up. “Really? Would you be willing to lead the group?” This is fantastic! It’s rare that they’re contracted a whole season and with everything planned out there’s the danger of redundancy.

 

Castiel squints. “I–I mean–”

 

“You wouldn’t have to do anything fancy. We can just make it a ride! Show them the landscape. I’d be with you the whole time—you wouldn’t even have to worry about talking to or entertaining them.” Dean adds. It hadn’t been the plan—Amara had other uses for him today. But Gabriel had designed this event, and Castiel, out of his depth, wouldn’t be able to replicate it. In the absence of the trinkets and clues, if Castiel could lead the party on a pleasant ride through the countryside the least Dean could do was provide some entertainment.  “Oh, Cas, you’d really be saving our bacon!”

 

Castiel swallows, but a small, hesitant smile tilts his lips. “Alright. As long as Gabriel doesn’t need me.”

 

Dean beams. “Of course,” he nods. Dean knows all about taking care of family first. “This is fantastic though! I’ll go let Crowley know. Meet me at the stables at noon? Unless… unless you need to stay with your brother of course.”

 

Castiel nods, “See you then.”

 

Dean watches, his heart fluttering like a sparrow's wings, as Castiel turns and makes the journey across the courtyard to the main gate. Just before he passes through the wicket gate Castiel hesitates. He turns and looks back to where Dean is still staring after him with a smile like a fool, and with a small nod, Castiel smiles back.

 

Dean quickly averts his gaze to the ground, to the kitchen, to the brazier burning in the center of the courtyard, then back to Castiel, but he’s already turned and stepped through the wicket gate into the manor and is gone.

 

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Castiel comes early to the stables to help Gadreel ready the horses for the ride. The cold air bites, but his palms are sweating. He’s no entertainer! How could he hope to live up to whatever Gabriel had promised the ladies for their afternoon ride? What got into him? Even as the question forms he knows the answer and tries to ignore it. Dean had looked so worried about the change in plans—so unlike his usual confident carefree demeanor. 

 

It occurs to him—Dean is carrying several burdens, kept well hidden. Castiel’s own concern for Gabriel reminds him that Dean, too, has a brother. One who is struggling with illness. 

 

It can’t be easy, always smiling, tasked with assuring the joy and merriment of others. Castiel only realized Dean’s confidence and carefree attitude was a mask when it slipped — that smile that didn’t quite reach Dean’s lovely eyes…and— 

 

Castiel shakes his head. 

 

‘M’lord.’

 

Dean was always so brazen. Why, after being so impertinently familiar, did he suddenly address Castiel with the deference due his station?....More than that, why had it stung so badly?

 

Before he could think it through, the offer to lead the ‘hunt’ in Gabriel’s place tumbled from his lips—his brain catching up midway and shouting for him to ‘Stop!’ 

 

Too late. Dean was accepting Castiel’s foolhardy suggestion, the smile in Dean’s eyes enough to quiet any of his misgivings.

 

And he was ‘Cas’ again.

 

It carried him pleasantly through the morning. But now, with a host of ladies about to arrive, and Castiel expected to lead them, his nerves were beginning to unravel. 

 

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The stable boy, Aelfric, is saddling a black mare and smiles when he sees Castiel. He smiles back with a nod but then gets straight to work readying Gwenhwyfar. He leads her out into the yard and ties her to a post, turning back to help with the others when Gadreel comes around the corner from the converted goat barn, leading a chestnut palfrey by the bridle. 

 

“Good morning, young master,” he says, tying the palfrey next to Castiel’s mount. “I was thinking that perhaps you would take Loki, and that young Dean could ride your more gentle jennet —As Dean does not have a horse of his own, Master Gabriel has offered his for use,” he explains. 

 

Castiel raises his brows. “Loki?” he asks, skeptically.

 

Gabriel’s horse, bought from a Danish trader, had a reputation befitting the Norse god’s name. When he was just a colt he developed a habit of slipping his stall and showing up in the strangest places. However entertaining it was to the rest of the household, it was quite disconcerting to Mildred when one day, she entered the kitchen to find Loki standing in the center of the room, staring at her as if she was the interloper, and for Hester, who’d screamed loud enough to wake the dead when she found him in her room on the second floor of the manor, nosing at her jewelry. 

 

Since then a special pen and a few goats as companions had been made to keep Loki from engineering escapes and terrifying the manor inhabitants. The only remaining problem?

 

“Loki only lets Gabriel ride him,” Castiel reminds him. 

 

The horse was notorious for bucking off anyone else who tried. There were times when one might mount the saddle, but no sooner would they start a walk or trot than Loki would throw them from their backs. Once Benny got as far as a canter down the road before Loki flicked his head and reared up, tossing the well-trained knight into a fetid mud puddle. 

 

No sooner had the caution left his mouth than the steady clop of an approaching horse could be heard and around the side of the stable, and there was Dean, calmly riding the equine trickster. 

 

Dean sits tall and sure in the saddle. His oud is strapped to his back. 

 

“Dean! Be careful!” Castiel says. “Loki throws people.”

 

“Oh, I know!” Dean huffed. “He already tried, twice. But I think me and him have come to an understanding. Right, Loki?”

 

As if on cue Loki tosses his head and whinny’s, but makes no move to throw the young musician. 

 

“That’s a good boy,” Dean praises, patting him on his neck.

 

“Perhaps young Dean might ride Loki after all,” Gadreel suggests, much to Castiel’s relief, and Dean himself seems only too happy to do so. He does seem to have a magical touch with the beast. He’s only ever seen Gabriel handle him so well. 

 

There is little wind, but the cold bites at his cheeks, so after conferring with Dean they settle on the idea of a forest trail, ending in a meadow. After reviewing the intended route with Castiel, Dean gives instructions to Garth and Mick to set up a warming fire in the meadow. Castiel explains the direct route. He and Dean will lead the ladies a more roundabout way so that Garth and Mick can ready a bonfire and some mulled wine. When the party of riders reaches the meadow the ladies can dismount a few moments to stretch their legs and sip some of the wine. Afterward, Castiel will lead them all back to the manor on a shorter, route.

 

Sometime later, they’ve saddled enough horses for each of the ladies attending the ride, and as it turns out, Benny has decided to come along too, no doubt for the chance to be closer to Lady Layla. Even Jo has gotten leave from Mildred to enjoy a ride in the countryside, while Sir Balthazar shows her that special recipe he promised. As there are enough hands in the kitchen today Jo accepts the chance for a ride in the open air, and Michael has given his permission for her to use one of the children’s gentle but sturdy ponies. 

 

Shortly after noon, they are off. Castiel rides in front, Dean in the middle, and Benny takes up the rear of the train of horses and riders. 

 

The path Castiel chooses through the forest is a wide one, but away from the main route to the villages. The snow has yet to be disturbed here and it muffles all but the sound of the birds and squirrels nickering in the trees. The quiet lies heavy yet peaceful in the forest. Some of the ladies are whispering behind him and Castiel worries that perhaps he should say something to break what might otherwise become an awkward silence, but he has never been good at small talk.

 

Then a horse nickers, Castiel turns in his saddle to see Dean leaning down to stroke Loki’s neck, praising him before dropping his reins, trusting the horse, and pulling the oud from his back. He starts with some gentle notes, then clears his throat. 

 

“I feel like a traveling song. What do you think Castiel? Benny? Shall we serenade the ladies while they enjoy the wonder of God’s creation?”

 

“I think you should serenade the ladies,” Castiel returns, looking back with a smirk “Benny and I will only spook the horses if we try.”

 

“Hey now! I was singing at a tavern just last month and Friar Martin said my voice can make angels weep,” Benny smirks.

 

The whole company laughs at the implication. 

 

Dean chuckles, “Fair enough. But what should I sing?” he asks, idly strumming some chords. 

 

“An ode to the virtues of our fair company here,” Benny suggests, his eyes meet Layla’s and she ducks her head with a smile. 

 

“Hmmm…there is so much to praise. Let me think a moment.”

 

Dean strums a few more chords then clears his throat again and sings:

 

“Lady Layla, fleet and bright,

Her radiance is pure starlight,

A gallant knight one day will serve,

Her heart, so kind, you have my word.”

 

Dean shrugs as if admitting it’s not his best work, but the party is clearly amused and Layla cries out, “Now do Sir Benet.”

 

“I will, but I’ve been told that if I call him anything other than Sir Benny I might have to pick myself up off the ground,” Dean jests, and is rewarded by more laughter. “Hmmm….let me think.”

 

"Now here’s a knight both big and bold,

A heart of gold, or so I’m told.

His sword’s as sharp as any blade—

They say no feast can match his might,

No roasted boar survives the night!” 

 

“I do love a good pork jowl,” Benny nods appreciatively.

 

“Ahh - But cross his friends, and mark it true—

He’ll crack your bones like crab claws too!" Dean finishes.

 

Castiel and the others laugh and Benny seems to take it in stride, weaving his fingers together and cracking his knuckles loudly for good measure.

 

Dean continues to make up rhymes, singing each in a little verse for the rest of the group. Sometimes the rhyme is so forced it's just plain silly, like when he sang of Colette, ‘Her beauty so rare, beyond all compare,

Like sunlight so bright… it burns if you stare.’ Yet somehow the more ridiculous the rhyme the more delightful the group seems to find it. 

 

Castiel smiles to himself. The ride is turning out much better than expected. Dean’s easy way with people has put everyone, himself included, at ease. He finds himself laughing along with the others at Dean’s verses, some poignant, some pointedly absurd. 

 

“Don’t forget Jo,” he teases, looking back at her with a wicked grin. She shoots him a narrow-eyed glare, but Castiel only chuckles. He wouldn’t have expected anything less from Jo.

 

“Ahhhh…methinks I need to be careful with this one,” Dean smirks, riding up alongside her and earning a warning look as well. “Yes, I most definitely need to be on my guard.” He strums a few chords and hums along, choosing a key. 

 

"Now Jo’s a lass who needs no shield,

No knight to fight upon the field!

She swings a pan, she wields a knife—

Lord help the fool who gives her strife!

 

But if you need a friend most true,

A heart of fire, steadfast through,

You’ll find none better, strong and bold—

Courage like iron and hair like gold!

How’d I do?” he finishes with an easy grin.

 

“Hmmmm,” Jo tilts her head and looks to the sky, considering. “I supposed you needn’t fear that I’ll swing that pan at you any time soon.”

 

Dean whistles and runs his hand across his brow in a show of mock relief, then nods in a subtle bow from his saddle.

 

“Now do Castiel.”

 

“Jo–” Cas warns.

 

“Haven’t you heard, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander?” she taunts.

 

“Sounds like your goose is cooked, Cas!” Dean teases. 

 

Castiel squints at him, shaking his head at the terrible pun, but he barely holds back the smile. 

 

“What bold Jo wants, bold Jo shall have!” Dean nudges Loki into a faster walk, passing the ladies and coming to ride beside Castiel. 

 

For a moment Dean says nothing. Castiel glances to find the man staring at him, head tilted, brow furrowed — lips pressed in a firm line.

 

“What, exactly are you doing?” Castiel grumbles, giving Dean a side-eyed glare.

 

“Getting to know my subject,” Dean answers thoughtfully. He strokes his chin as if in contemplation. Castiel huffs and scowls at him making Dean grin and the ladies giggle. He strums a chord and begins:

 

"Now Castiel, our fearless guide,

On steady horse, with quiet pride.

Through wood and stream, o’er hill and glade,

He cuts a path both true and brave!"

 

Dean pauses, grinning a little, as if considering what’s next.

 

Blue eyes, the ladies call très beau,

He blushes if you tell him so.

 

Castiel glances quickly at Dean and sees him looking back with a knowing, self-satisfied grin as he plucks a few more notes on his oud. Castiel looks away but already his neck is hot. He curses his body’s reaction to Dean’s assessment as the warmth floods his cheeks betraying him. 

 

"Ahhh! There it is!" Dean’s chuckles are echoed by the company, their laughter warm and easy. Castiel turns back to him with a scowl.

 

“Careful, Cas,” Dean warns with an easy grin. “The last time someone looked at me like that, I—” 

 

Dean stops short. His grin freezes, then slips — his eyes widen a flicker, then Dean looks away.

 

Castiel frowns, scanning Dean’s face—expecting another jest. But Dean swallows hard and blinks, fingers tensing on his oud.

 

“What?” Castiel presses. “What’s wrong, Dean?” He turns in the saddle glancing around for any sign of danger.

 

"Nothing," Dean breathes, fast and dismissive. He huffs a nervous laugh, “Just, um— who wants a story?” he calls back to the company. Without waiting for a response, Dean turns his horse, riding back to take his place in the middle of the group.

 

Castiel, still frowning, watches him go.

 

Did he say something wrong?

 

Dean begins a tale—The Knight with the Lion—his voice light, easy, as if nothing had happened. Castiel exhales, his fingers flexing briefly on the reins as he settles his gaze on the path ahead.

 

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Some time later, after Dean finishes his tale, they reach the end of the forest trail where the land opens up into a field bordered by a small stream.

 

“We can give the horses a run if you like,” Castiel offers, glancing back at the group. “There’s a stretch of grass along the stream that’s free of hazards.”

 

Most of the group is eager, but Jo, who has never ridden before, hesitates.

 

“Hold onto the pommel,” he assures her, checking the placement of her feet in the stirrups. “Keep your weight balanced, let the horse move beneath you. It will be alright.”

 

She nods, trusting him.

 

Castiel urges Gwenhwyfar forward, and she eases smoothly into a canter, the other horses following swiftly behind. The run is swift and clean, but then—Castiel feels Gwenhwyfar falter beneath him.

 

She recovers, but his instincts prick. He slows her to a stop, the others following his lead.

 

“What’s wrong, brother?” Benny asks as Castiel dismounts, already scanning Gwenhwyfar for any sign of injury.

 

“Not sure. Something was off.” He runs his hands down her forelegs, checks her hooves, and finds the problem.

 

She’s thrown a shoe.

 

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

 

“Is she hurt?” Isabelle asks, reining her horse in beside him.

 

“No,” Castiel calls back, straightening. “But she won’t be sound for long if I ride her unshod.”

 

Dean swings down from Loki’s back, crouching to check Gwenhwyfar’s hoof himself as Benny rides up.

 

“Dunwick’s not far from here,” Benny says. “They’ve got a good smithy who can fix her up quick. Better than riding her all the way back and risking her going lame.”

 

Castiel frowns. “It’s cold. If we take a detour, it’ll be getting dark by the time we return.”

 

“I can take her if you like,” Dean offers. “We can switch mounts.”

 

Castiel’s eyes flick warily to Loki.

 

“Better yet,” Benny suggests. “I’ll take the ladies back. I know the way. You take Dean with you. Two are safer than one traveling in this cold.”

 

“He’s right,” Dean says. “If she comes up lame or something happens to you, no one would know until it was too late.”

 

Castiel hesitates. “Are you sure you can take them by yourself?”

 

Benny grins, shifting in the saddle and gesturing to the hilt of his sword. “Leave the rest of the ride to me, brother. If you hurry, you might even make it back before dinner.”

 

Castiel looks between Benny and Dean, reluctant to abandon his role as guide, but knowing it’s the safest course of action.

 

“Alright,” he nods.

 

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On the far edge of Lord Charles’s demesne lies the village of Dunwick. In addition to furnishing goods for the manor, the village provides respite and supplies to pilgrims along the route to St. Cuthbert’s Priory in the north, and on occasion small contingents of knights on their way to the coast. It’s by no means a bustling crossroad like the ones in the south near London or in France, where tributary armies of crusaders converge, before taking the old Roman roads south to Marseilles, but the few free families living there are able to make a fair if modest living.

 

Castiel leads Dean away from the main roads, in a straight line across fields toward the village. 

 

The road to Dunwick is quiet, save for the rhythmic crunch of hooves on frost-hardened earth. The cold air nips at them, but the ride itself is pleasant. He risks a glance at Dean, who sits comfortably astride Loki, his oud once again strapped to his back, his expression open and easy.

 

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Castiel says, breaking the quiet. “You didn’t have to, you know. Benny thinks I’m still nine years old.”

 

“It’s no trouble Cas. Besides, I don’t even remember the last time I had the pleasure of riding a horse like this one. Gives me an excuse to do something different for a change,” he says, patting Loki’s neck and stroking along his mane. 

 

“I would think being a member of a troupe of entertainers one would always be doing something different,” he remarks. 

 

“Well, yeah. But you know,” Dean sighs dramatically, shifting in his saddle, “I’m always the one singing for everyone else. Feels unfair.”

 

Castiel raises a brow, amused. “Oh? Are you asking for a song?”

 

Dean huffs. “Asking? No! Not little old me! Just making an observation that not once—not once —has anyone ever thought, Maybe Dean Winchester deserves a song. ”

 

Castiel chuckles. “A terrible injustice.”

 

“That’s what I’m saying!” Dean gestures broadly. “I mean, what does a guy gotta do to get a little balladry in his honor?”

 

Castiel shakes his head, laughter rising in his chest. “Very well,” he says, as if conceding. “Perhaps I can compose something.”

 

Dean perks up. “Yeah?”

 

“Hmmm.” Castiel thinks a moment, tilting his head, then, in a quiet, lilting melody, he begins:

 

“Dean, Dean, charming Dean,

For the ladies see him preen,

Casts a smile and lays them low

Handsome, yes — he knows it so.”

 

Castiel grins, and Dean has the good humor to look scandalized. “Och!… makes me sound a little vain, Castiel. I’m not sure I approve.”

 

Dean, Dean, brazen Dean

Sings for every king and queen,

Plays his the oud and rebec, sweet…

 

Castiel hesitates, searching for a rhyme.

 

 “—-Just don’t ever smell his feet,” he chuckles.

 

Dean shakes his head with a sigh, “And here, I thought we were friends.”

 

“Oh, not up to your lofty standards then?” Castiel laughs, exchanging a teasing smile at Dean’s amused huff.

 

They walk a bit further in silence. Castiel steals a glance to his right. Dean rides Loki quietly beside him, looking lost in thought. He wonders if anyone has ever sung for Dean. They must have. In a troupe like that? Then again…their job is to make others merry, not make merry themselves.

 

He thinks for a moment, then begins again — his song softer this time. 

 

“Dean, Dean, gentle Dean,
Tames a horse like no one’s seen,

Steady hands and voice so bright,
His sweet song is heart’s delight.”

 

Dean lets out a breath of laughter, but it’s quieter now, like he’s waiting for a punchline, and there’s something about that, that makes Castiel even more determined to sing a proper verse for the man. 

 

“Dean, Dean, fair my Dean

Eyes like jewels of emerald green,

Laugh so light, and smile so bold,
Guards his heart, like purest gold.

 

Dean’s fingers tighten on the reins, and color blooms in his cheeks. “Aww shucks, Cas,” he jokes, trying to deflect from the moment — but there’s a shyness in his manner that wasn’t there before, like a secret bloom opening in his heart that only Castiel can see.

 

It makes Castiel's own heart brave— bold, and foolish enough to dare one more verse.

 

“Dean, Dean, kind and true,

Blessed the heart that will him woo,

Blessed as well, the soul so rare,

For whom he sings a lover’s air.”

 

Castiel finishes. They ride on for a few moments letting the fragile silence hang between them. This time it’s Castiel who feels his cheeks heat and he lowers his eyes to the horse in front of him. Perhaps he’s said too much, he thinks... been too transparent. But when he looks up Dean’s watching him. 

 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says. A gentle smile curves his lips—soft, sincere, a quiet appreciation that steals the breath from Castiel’s lungs. 

 

He swallows, wrestling with something —some voice inside him warning him not to dare too much.

 

“Well… Couldn’t let that injustice stand now, could I?” Castiel jests, but his voice feels thinner than before, and he worries that he's let too much of himself slip free before he could stop it.

 

Dean huffs a quiet laugh. He rolls his shoulders and shifts in the saddle, turning his attention once again to the path ahead.

Castiel exhales, forcing his gaze forward as well. They ride on in silence, and to Castiel, it feels as if there are words they’ve left unspoken, lingering between them like the hush before snowfall.

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They walk the last half mile on foot, Castiel leading Gwenhwyfar over a carefully chosen path. Smoke rises from the hearth fires of the humble dwellings up ahead. A dog barks warning the villagers of their approach. As they reach the edge of the village they are met by a man with a sword strapped to his hips. 

 

“Welcome stranger,” he calls out, holding up a hand in warning. Castiel reads a challenge in the lift of his chin. “To whom do we owe the honor?”

 

“I am Castiel de Devin, son of Sir Charles, whose lands these are. I pray you, my horse has thrown a shoe and I’m in need of a smithy. I heard there was a skilled one here in Dunwick.”

 

“Aye, m’lord,” the older man says as they both dip their heads in respect. “I hope you’ll forgive us our cautiousness. There’ve been more and more travelers of late. Some pilgrims, some warriors on route to other parts. These days, one can’t be too careful with strangers,” he adds, eyes falling on Dean.

 

“I understand,” Castiel nods.

 

“The widow Corviser runs a small inn for travelers. It’s not much but you could warm yourself by the fire a bit while I show your servant the way to the smithy.”

 

“Dean’s my companion, not my servant,” Castiel corrects with a quick glance in Dean’s direction. “He’s a free man like yourself.”

 

“Then let me show you both the way to the smithy. If you find everything agreeable you can leave your mounts there and seek warmth or wait while he shoes your mount. A fine war horse if I do say so, m’lord.” The man says reaching for Loki’s reins.

Loki stomps and snorts but Dean grips his bridle, and makes a shushing sound to calm him.

 

“That’s Dean’s horse. The jennet is mine,” Castiel clarifies. Well…it’s really Gabriel’s, but these are small details. Dean deserves some credit for taming the beast. “She’s the one in need of a shoe.”

 

If the man finds this unusual, he says nothing. 

 

A moment later Dean and Castiel are following the man past timber buildings that look to be part dwelling part workshop. A few children, two boys and a girl peek their heads around the corner of a nearby cottage, then duck back in hiding when Castiel catches them looking. The little girl pokes her head cautiously around the corner again and Castiel tries to reassure her they mean no harm with a smile. Her eyes light up and she bravely steps into the street to wave to them, the curious boys following her bold lead.

 

Despite the cold, the little town shows signs of activity. There’s a man dying cloth off the side of one of the homes, the wastewater running into a trench that leads away from the path through town. A short way down from that several hides hang curing in a shelter, open on one side. It must be the shop of a cobbler or corviser, for a sign with a crude painting of a boot hangs by the door. 

 

“The inn,” their guide nods in the direction of a two-story timber frame building as they pass. “Usually full up with pilgrims come spring, but there’s a bed or two empty if you need ‘em owing to the season. Not as many people traveling this time of year.”

 

“We hope to be on our way as soon as we can obtain a shoe for my horse.” 

 

“‘Course, m’lord,” the man nods. “It’s nary an hour’s ride to your home, I wager. But you can warm yourself while you wait if you need to. Sample some of the ale.”

 

“That’s a great idea,” Dean comments, “Isn’t it Cas?”

 

Castiel looks at him curiously, “Of course, Dean. If you like.”

 

Their guide smiles back at them, then continues on.

 

“Not as many pilgrims,” Dean says, leaning towards him with a whisper. “These people could probably use the coin.”

 

Oh. 

 

Of course. Why hadn’t Castiel thought of that? 

 

“Then we will certainly give them our patronage,” he tells Dean with a nod, as if taking a solemn vow. 

 

Dean smiles warmly as if Castiel’s response genuinely pleases him. As if maybe—just maybe—there’s a fondness there for Castiel as well. 

 

Castiel suddenly finds himself taken by the desire to always make Dean smile so. 

 

In the distance, he hears the pounding of metal on metal, between some cracks in the sideboards the glow of a forge can be seen. The smokey scent of the wood and charcoal forge is welcome after the unpleasant scent of the curing hides.

 

They tie the horses to a post at the corner of the smithy and follow the man inside.

 

A blacksmith stands at the anvil, his back to them, flattening a strip of glowing metal with a heavy mallet. The heat of the forge and the labor of his craft keep him warm, his woolen shirt damp with sweat despite the cold outside. He sets down the mallet and turns, thrusting the blade into a barrel of water. It hisses and sends up steam as it cools. The man wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, setting the cooling blade on a table.

 

“This is our blacksmith,” their guide announces. “Finest work you’ll see this far north of London. Oi! I’ve brought you a customer. A son of Lord Charles’” he calls to the man. “He’ll be needing a shoe for his horse.”

 

The blacksmith turns, looking up at the men. His eyes settle on Castiel and he freezes.

 

Castiel’s breath catches, his mouth falling open in shock.

 

It…can’t be.

 

For a moment, neither of them moves. They only stare.

 

Slowly, a smile spreads across the blacksmith’s face—sure and steady.

 

“Castiel?”

 

“Inias?” Castiel breathes. “Is it really you?”

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think! 💚💙

Chapter 12: The Fifth Day of Christmas - Part III - Desiderium

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“Castiel?”

 

The blacksmith smiles, eyes bright with joy and….something else. Castiel’s lips have fallen open with a surprised breath, and Dean —

 

Dean knows that look. He’s seen it a thousand times across a stage. Trained himself to mirror it, in the role of a star-crossed lover, imagining over and over what it might feel like to come face to face with the one you love —the one you thought you lost, until he perfected it for the audience and could move them to tears. But now, he’s the audience, and what’s playing out before his eyes is all too real. 

“Inias?” Castiel breathes finally. “Is it really you?” He blinks, blue eyes wide and hopeful—so soft—and it should feel good, seeing Cas filled with hope for a change, so why does it feel like Dean’s heart just got knocked sideways?

 

Dean sucks in a breath, this strange ache unnerving him in a way he’s never known. Get a grip, he thinks, closing his eyes, but when he opens them Castiel is still standing there with his heart cracked open, blue eyes soft, and fuck.

 

Dean's jaw tightens. 

 

He looks away.

 

Because he shouldn’t be watching this. Because it feels too raw, too intrusive. 

 

Because he was wrong. 

 

Oh, shit—he had it so damn wrong!

 

It’s not Jo. Castiel never had that look for Jo. Fondness, sure, but this? This is something else. Something more.

 

And yeah… now Dean understands. Understands exactly why it feels like he’s been kicked in the chest. 

 

Because Castiel is looking at someone like that.

 

And it’s not him.

 

And now, as he stares out at the street, it feels like he’s out of step with the world, out of step with time — the passing townsfolk a blur of drab colors and muffled sounds — and Dean wants to be anywhere but here. 

 

He wants to disappear. 

 

“Dean.” 

 

His breath catches. His name on Castiel’s lips should be a lifeline, but when he lifts his gaze, it’s like stepping off a ledge. Castiel’s back is to Dean now, still gazing forward at Inias, whose expression has shifted to one of concern.

 

“Forgive me,” Castiel says, not even bothering to turn. His voice warm, apologetic, and far too gentle for a wound this deep. “But I—Dean…could you excuse us for a moment?” 

 

He’s trying to hide it, but Dean hears the way his voice trembles. Dean’s chest tightens. Shit. He was right. This is love. Castiel is so fucking in love he's practically shaking.

 

And that little sparrow in Dean’s chest—the one whose fluttering made him feel alive —is caught in a stranglehold, its tiny body convulsing, wings flailing in a desperate bid for air.

 

He shouldn’t have let it take flight in the first place.

 

Dean swallows, his throat so tight it hurts.

 

“Of course, my lord.”

 

The words scrape his throat like gravel but he forces them out as evenly as he can. He nods, casts a final glance at the blacksmith —Inias— and turns, walking numbly to the street.

 

He doesn’t look back.

 

Not when his vision starts to blur.

 

Not even when his chest feels like it's caving in.

 

Not even when he swears, just for a second, he hears Castiel’s breath hitch behind him.

 

Because it doesn’t matter.

 

Not anymore.

 

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He returns to the horses, but he’s still too close to the glow of the forge, too close to where two men with the unguarded eyes of long-lost lovers are having their reunion. 

 

He feels the chill seeping into him as the sun continues her course through her daily arc. The first shadows of late afternoon fall over the street as Dean pulls his threadbare cloak tighter around him. He can’t stay here, and yet he can’t leave, not without Castiel. 

 

The man who’d guided them to the smithy is passing now. Dean acknowledges him with a nod. He tips his hat to Dean as he passes and heads back down the street past the small alehouse they’d encountered along the way.

 

Discreetly, Dean pulls at the cord around his neck, checking the small pouch he keeps between his tunic and the coarse linen shirt beneath for coins. The iridescent feather of the magpie catches the light as it slips free, a sharp reminder of his own foolishness. A trinket for the troupe, that’s all.

 

Dean is a player— an entertainer, nothing more. He spins worlds of fantasy for others to enjoy. He never should have mistaken the stage for real life.

 

He huffs a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. His jaw and his neck — hell his whole head aches with the strain of pushing down what never should have surfaced in the first place. Loki tosses his head and huffs in response. And Gwenhwyfar sidles nickering. 

 

“Easy sweetheart,” he says gentling Gwenhwyfar and stroking along her neck. “He’s all bluster,” he says of the warhorse. “Your master’s getting you some nice new shoes.” Dean turns to Loki, “You behave with this lady,” he warns, with a gentle rub of the horse's nose. “I’ll be back soon enough,” he tells them.

 

He glances once more toward the entrance to the smithy, where the roar of the forge muffles the words of the two men within the embrace of its warmth and light, then turns away and heads down the shadowed street toward the alehouse. 

 

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He’s just finished his pint and is reconciling himself with returning to face Castiel and his blacksmith when the comely young barmaid with fiery red hair—  what was her name? Anna? — replaces his empty tankard with a full one. 

 

He glances toward the door and the sliver of light spilling in from the street tells him it’s still light out. He couldn’t have been here that long, and the handsome dark-haired blacksmith still has a horse to shoe. He nods a polite thank you and pulls a half-penny more from his small leather purse, pushing it towards her across the table.

 

One more can’t hurt.

 

He tucks the leather pouch away, hand catching on the cord of the feather that once again has slipped from its hidden place next to Dean’s heart.  He runs his finger along its sleek vanes thinking about how it was only yesterday that he stood in the forest with Castiel, watching the sparrows defending their home and each other from the larger, more beautiful, yet thieving bird.

 

He’d imagined it as a sort of metaphor at the time. The small and underestimated sparrows defeating the more elegant, powerful bird with nothing but teamwork and a ‘give ‘em hell’ attitude.

 

‘Stubborn little things’— Cas and Dean, both. 

 

He stares at the feather now, like a holy relic.

 

God’s blood! 

 

What in heaven’s name is wrong with him? 

 

So he’s taken a liking to the youngest son of Lord Charles de Devin—so what? Dean has fancied plenty of people before. It was supposed to be a game, a bit of fun. Teasing and testing—seeing how far he could push Castiel before those wide, earnest eyes snapped with something sharper. 

 

It wasn’t supposed to be real. 

 

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. 

 

But it does. And now he knows—knows in the pit of his gut and the hollow of his chest—that it was never a game to begin with.

 

He lets out a breath, staring blankly into his drink, hating the way his chest feels tight, hating that he can’t stop thinking about—

 

“Ohhh! That’s lovely!” Anna remarks pointing to the feather cradled in his hands. “May I see it?”

 

Dean’s hand cups the feather possessively for a moment, then realizes it’s silly. Why not let her have a look? He pulls the cord over his neck as she takes a seat on the bench opposite and places it in her hand.

 

Anna holds the feather up to examine it, turning it in the light of the hearth fire. “What kind of bird makes feathers of such colors? Is it from a starling?” she asks, as Dean watches the greens blend and morph into hues of iridescent blue. 

 

“It’s from a magpie,” Dean tells her, anxious now to have it back — suddenly fearful she might damage it.

 

Don’t be such a little bitch about it.

 

It’s just a fucking feather!

 

“Why do you wear it? Did a sweetheart give you this?” she asks, leaning in. 

 

He opens his mouth to speak but does not get the words out.

 

“Dean.”

 

Castiel’s voice is coarse and clipped.

 

Dean turns his head to find him standing in the doorway, the light from the hearth catching in his eyes. For a moment, there’s a look Dean can’t decipher—something fleeting, something almost… but then Castiel quickly looks down and away. When he raises his gaze again, whatever it was is gone, replaced by a cool mask of stoicism.

 

“We need to go,” he says plainly, turning and exiting into the street. 

 

Dean rises quickly to follow.

 

“Will you be comin' back this way?” the maid asks as he reaches to retrieve the feather. She somewhat reluctantly gives it over, and Dean slips it again around his neck, tucking it away. 

 

“I go wherever fortune calls me,” he says with a wink. “Thank you miss.” He pays her a nod of respect, pressing one last small coin into her hand. 

 

In the street, Castiel is atop Gwenhwyfar, Loki’s reins in his hand. 

 

“How did you know where to find me?” Dean asks. Not that he was hiding, but he hadn’t told Castiel where he’d gone. But then, perhaps it was common sense.

 

“I didn’t,” Castiel replies, not bothering to look at Dean. “Loki somehow got loose. He was nosing at the door to the alehouse so I checked inside.”

 

Dean snorts, taking the reins in his hand, but Castiel clicks his tongue, urging Gwenhwyfar to walk on, not waiting for him to mount. 

 

Dean soon catches up. 

 

"What’s wrong, Cas?"

 

Castiel’s eyes snap to his. His mouth parts, a shallow breath catching in his throat. His brows pull together.

 

For a moment he hesitates —just looks at Dean, something flickering behind his eyes—something raw. Castiel’s lips move subtly— on the edge of words.

 

Then, his gaze drops. His fingers flex against the reins.

 

"The sun is setting," he says, quieter now. He clears his throat. "We should put some ground behind us before dark."

 

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head. Right. Because that’s the important thing here.

 

Castiel clicks his tongue, spurring Gwenhwyfar forward without another word.

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Notes:

{Author runs and hides 😬}

Let me know what you think! 😆

Reading your comments and encouragement has been amazing. I started this fic thinking "Oh! I'll do a quick little '12 Days of' Hallmarky holiday fluff piece and it turned into something else!

Thank you to Betas Lexi and Sarah for keeping with me and giving great feedback!

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Next chapter coming soon!💙💚

Chapter 13: The Fifth Day of Christmas - Part IV - Blacksmith

Notes:

Thanks as always to Sarah and Lexi! Thank you to all who have kudo'd, subscribed, and left kind and encouraging comments. I hope you enjoy this one! 💚💙

 

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The blacksmith cools his latest creation in a barrel of water. Then turns toward Castiel, Dean, and their guide.

Castiel freezes in shock, his lungs refusing to even take air.

It…can’t be.

“Castiel?” The man before him starts, the soft familiar smile curving his lips. Lips Castiel has tasted.

“Inias?” he breathes, finally. “Is it really you?”

 

A flash— May, crisp morning, air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle. Another— the weight of a hand pulling him forward, the breath of a laugh against his lips— stolen touches beneath moonlight, tender and sweet. Then —the wrath of the righteous, terror sharp as iron, a part of him bound and cast into the dark, never to claw free again. And Inias—

Suddenly the weight of the past five years slams into him all at once, pressing into his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs. And beneath the shock, fear stirs—because the same danger that tore them apart once before is still present right now. By the look in Inias’ eyes, he feels it too.

It’s threatening to break forth, this joy —this release —-this terror. His eyes sting with the effort of holding it all in and he shifts, not wanting Dean to see him like this in his weakness, not wanting their guide to see him like this lest he grasp the nature of their connection.

Fear grips him. Castiel is already ruined, but he can’t ruin Inias’ life like that again. He clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

“Dean,” Castiel starts, struggling to steady his voice. 

Dean will understand…

“Forgive me,” he continues, “But I —- Dean…could you excuse us a moment?”

There’s a pause. He wonders if Dean heard him but he dares not look back. He dare not look at Inias. Castiel closes his eyes.

“Of course, my lord.”

Castiel bristles at the honorific, the formality of it knitting his brow, as the levee cracks and a tear slips through. 

The sound of footsteps fade into the street. He opens his mouth to speak but nearly jumps to hear their guide behind him as he addresses them.

He’s still here. 

“Well!” the man says cheerfully “Looks like I needn’t have sung your praises so, Inias. If young master de Devin here knows you he must already know your fine work. I’ll leave you both to it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, grateful for the man’s departure.

“Thank you, Martin,” Inias says at the same time, his voice just as raw and strained as Castiel’s.

Castiel hastily wipes his eyes then hazards a glance over his shoulder to see the man make his exit. 

When he turns back, there’s a moment when neither of them speaks. Inias exhales ---slow and measured - the release that comes when a danger has passed. 

And Castiel breaks.

He breaks as if he was the levee all along, but now is nothing but floodwater, rushing to meet Inias. 

Inias is swept up in it too and Castiel fears he may be drowning. Their arms flow around each other — a steadying force, their grip so tight he thinks they might leave bruises. 

But it’s all right, because Inias is alive. And by the looks of it more than alive. 

He’s thriving.

Inias huffs a laugh into Castiel’s shoulder. He pulls back, hands slipping to grip Castiel’s arms, eyes searching his face like he still can’t believe Castiel is real.

“Inias, what happened? Have you been here this whole time? I’d wondered—” Castiel starts and stops, not wanting to give voice to the fears he had suffered over Inias’ fate. “They wouldn’t tell me anything. I was afraid—afraid you were banished or worse—”

“I might have been,” Inias admits as the men finally part. “But for Gadreel.”

Castiel shakes his head, “I– I don’t understand.”

“The man who ran this forge before me. He was a good man. He made all of the manor’s bits, bridlework, kitchen tools and scythes. He and his wife had just lost their only child, and I being an orphan with nowhere to go—. Well I don’t know if Lord Charles cared, as long as we were apart, but Gadreel brought me here, to help the old blacksmith, and in time, he became like a father to me.”

Castiel wipes the tears from his eyes. “I worried so much for you. All these years I’d thought—” he heaves a great sigh, settling down on a small tree stump fashioned into a stool. “I thought I’d condemned you.”

“No,” Inias smiles. “You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Castiel. Even if things hadn’t worked out as they did, I would not wish away that summer. You saved me — in so many ways.”

“We saved each other, I think.”

Inias nods.

A quiet settles between them as Castiel looks around the smithy, taking in the wall of tools, the forge, the fuel piled ready, the anvil. It’s a tidy workshop.

“I….. I have a family,” Inias says, a little hesitantly. Castiel looks up and again, that soft smile curves his lips. “A wife and child…and Christ willing one on the way,” he tells Castiel, a look of hope in his eyes. 

Castiel’s brows raise — this is unexpected, all of this is so unexpected. “Are you happy?” he asks, his blue eyes intent on Inias’ –almost their mirror. “Oh Inias, I’ve so wished for your happiness!”

Inias’ smile gleams. “I am,” he nods. “I am — but that happiness has always been tempered with despair and angst over how we were parted,” he replies gently. “With fear regarding your fate.” Inias’ eyes have reddened as he speaks, though he keeps himself in check. “Castiel, I’ve spent years wondering if you were well or ill, if you were alone, or whether you were distressed or happy. And your father…” He looks quickly to the street and back, as if even now some servant of Lord Charles might be watching. “He made it clear, for both of our sakes I was never allowed to ask.”

“I understand,” Castiel nods, “Truly I do. I was told you were banished. That if your name was so much as mentioned he would do worse.” 

Inias nods his understanding.

It sinks in, how close Inias was, all this time. Castiel was the one banished –off to lord Uriel’s, but perhaps if he’d trusted Gadreel, his mind could have been put at ease. But then perhaps with knowledge of Castiel’s sins, Gadreel was threatened as well.

“I will never forget what we shared, Castiel, and for a time I thought I would never be able to love anyone like that.” Inias shrugs, a sheepish smile plays on his lips. “After a time, I met Helena, and found I was quite wrong about that. My only hope is that life brings you happiness and love in equal measure.” He reaches down, grasping Castiel’s hand and gives it a squeeze, “No one deserves it more than you, Castiel.”

Of all the ways Castiel could have imagined this day turning out, this was never one of them. He had spent years carrying the weight of guilt and memory, believing he had destroyed Inias' life. But now, faced with the truth—that Inias had not only survived but flourished—- it’s as if a hundredweight stone has been lifted from him. 

Castiel feels something shift inside him. Not jealousy. Not longing. Just a great, quiet relief. And happiness…

He’d held onto Inias in his heart for so long. His first love—his first loss. The memory had been a tangle of longing and sorrow, a wound that never fully closed. But seeing Inias now, happy and whole, the ache transforms into something softer. Something warm. A love that no longer reaches for what was, but instead can simply be grateful for what is.

He exhales, long and slow, as if releasing the last breath of an old grief. The boy he once loved is standing before him, no longer the ill-fated ghost of his past, but a man with a life of his own. And Castiel, to his own quiet astonishment, feels only joy for him.

Inias' smile falters for just a moment, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. "So you see Castiel. It was never you that condemned me," he says softly. "If anything, it was the opposite. If I'd had the choice back then, I would have gone with you."

The words settle deep in Castiel’s chest, a quiet affirmation of something he had always known but never dared to voice. Inias had loved him too. Not just as a friend, not just in the desperate, fleeting way of stolen moments, but in a way that might have endured the trials of youth—if the world had let it.

But the world had not.

Castiel wonders if part of the torch he’d carried all these years had been fueled not just by love, but by the belief that Inias had been cast out because of him—that Castiel’s love had been a burden, a curse. Had he been doing penance, mistaking it for love? Keeping those memories close, locked in his heart —refusing to allow himself to be happy out of a misguided sense of guilt?

No, he thinks. At least not entirely. Castiel did love Inias. Perhaps part of him always will.   

But Inias is alive. Thriving! A husband and father, standing before him as something whole, not broken. Castiel finds he cannot be anything but happy for him, and in that happiness, Castiel can finally let him go.

A soft giggle draws Castiel’s attention, and he turns to see Inias’ wife, Helena, approach, a toddler bundled in wool at her side.

“Papa!” the child calls, and Inias immediately strides forward, scooping him up with a practiced ease.

The sight should sting. Instead, there is only warmth—some quiet, distant part of him recognizing that Inias deserves this, that he is meant to have this.

Perhaps it is not so strange.

He’d known of other men who spoke easily of desire, who loved as freely as the wind—whether it was a woman’s smile or a man’s strength that drew them in. Castiel had sometimes wished it could be the same for him. That he might not feel so set apart, so different. That his heart might bend rather than break against the weight of it all. Life might be so much easier if it did. Yet as much as Castiel wished, even tried —-he could not change the desires of his heart.

But as Castiel watches the gentle smiles and touches exchanged by the family before him, his heart is full, knowing that Inias is exactly where he should be. 

Inias grins, pressing a kiss to the boy’s curls before turning back toward him. “This is Master Castiel,” he tells the child. “He was papa’s best friend when I was but a boy not much bigger than you.”

The toddler stares at Castiel, wide-eyed and curious. Castiel, suddenly feeling wildly out of his depth, clears his throat and tries to smile. He can already hear the teasing remark Dean would make—how Dean, in his effortless way, would know exactly how to make the child laugh.

The thought sends warmth curling through him, instinctive, steady.

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, turning automatically—only then realizing Dean isn’t there.

The moment freezes.

That’s right. He asked him to give them a moment.

It had been a simple request, but something unsettles him about it now. How long had he left Dean outside in the cold?

Castiel casts a glance toward the street, eyes scanning past the handful of townsfolk moving about their day.

“Excuse me a moment, mistress, Inias,” he nods to the pair, already moving.

The cold air rushes against his skin as he steps beyond the forge, gaze flicking left, right. No Dean.

His stomach twists—not with fear, not yet, but something uneasy settles in his chest. He moves toward where Loki and Gwenhwyfar were tied—both still there.

“Perhaps your companion has just gone for a walk, or for a draught of ale,” Inias says from the forge’s doorway, arms crossed, amusement in his tone. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Castiel presses his lips together and forces a brief smile. “Perhaps you’re right.”

But the unease lingers as he gathers Gwenhwyfar’s reins and leads her toward the smithy.

It takes the skilled blacksmith no time at all to size and replace Gwenhwyfar’s shoes. Castiel has him replace the other shoe in the front as well so she’ll have even wear. Inias tries to refuse payment, but Castiel hands the coins to Helena, teasing that he knows how stubborn her husband can be and will light a candle at mass and pray for her endurance. 

She laughingly accepts the coins for the sake of their children and Inias smiles in surrender.

“Don’t be long now, love. Supper’s ready and this little one is famished, she teases patting her protruding belly,” she pecks Inias on the cheek. “It was a pleasure meeting you, m’lord.”

“It's just Castiel,” he smiles back at her as she retreats with the child in her arms through a side door in the smithy. 

Inias smiles after her. 

“Ahhh, I know that look!” Castiel grins. “Inias Smith, you are smitten!”

“You would know,” he quips back with teasing eyes that send a sudden flush to Castiel’s cheeks. 

“All kidding aside, I thank God daily for my fortune in life and love, and have also prayed for yours. We were happy, for a time, you and I. But we were also young and foolish,” Inias shakes his head, smiling fondly at the recollection. “In any case it was not to be. I have been blessed twice in my life with a love that stirs both body and soul. My greatest hope these past few years has been for you to be so blessed as well.”

Castiel laughs, nervously. “I– No, I don’t think that will happen for me. It’s…it’s reckless.” 

“Don’t think it impossible. You’re not a child anymore Castiel. Your position can most surely afford you some protection — some privacy to pursue love on your terms.”

Castiel huffs, “You have more hope than I on that account I’m afraid,” he replies, blushing. 

Inias’ brows knit, head tilting a fraction. He studies Castiel a moment longer, then exhales a quiet laugh.

“What?” Castiel frowns.

“The boy who came with you—Dean?”

Castiel’s heart gives a foolish, unwanted kick at the name. “What about him?”

“Is he not your companion?”

Castiels’ eyes widen. He looks out to the street as if Dean might appear. “Um...no, I mean — companion yes, on this journey” Castiel pulls absently at the collar of his cloak, “but Dean’s um, no — no not– companion.”

Inias shakes his head, eyeing Castiel carefully as he struggles to explain, then bursts into full-throated laughter.

“What?” Castiel says again, with a hint of frustration. 

“It’s just that he looks at you the way you once looked at me,” Inias grins “and looks at me like a rival.”

Castiel stiffens. “Dean’s—” He stops himself.

Inias waits.

Castiel swallows, shaking his head. “He likes women.”

“So do I,” Inias smirks.

Castiel frowns “Well, yes, but….” 

Inias raises his eyebrows, expectantly, as if waiting for it to sink in.

Oh.

Oh!

Castiel eyes the floor at their feet searching for something…searching for a reason…His eyes drop to the ground at their feet as he imagines loving someone else. Loving Dean— No! Even imagining it causes the weight of the past five years to settle on him again...  “I’m bound for St. Cuthbert’s.”

“Are you sure of your vocation?”

Castiel opens his mouth to profess a lie, but stops himself. 

This is Inias. 

He settles for, “It’s… decided….Besides, I could never risk someone I cared about like that again.” 

Inias’ eyes grow sorrowful.

“Love is not meant to be shackled and entombed, Castiel. And your love — Castiel, I can’t bear the thought of that part of you being locked away to wither and die.”

Castiel tenses, but it’s too late. The thing inside him—the part of him that once bloomed with love—has already begun to wither in the dark, already curling in on itself like something left too long in the cold. And Inias’ words… they make him see it.

He tries to respond — to tell Inias not to worry for him, but the words get lodged in his throat, and all he can manage is a curt nod.

Castiel feels…

Too much.

His ribs feel tight, as though his heart is suddenly too large for his chest. He tries to push Inias’ words aside, but they’ve rooted themselves in him. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore. Just like---

No. He won’t let himself finish the thought. Besides, Inias barely got a glimpse of the man. He won't let the possibility unfurl, wild and reckless, inside him.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight. 

“Your supper will get cold,” Castiel says, focusing on the real world. Their eyes meet again and they share a reluctant smile. “I should be on my way.”

“Promise you will visit again,” Inias asks, “or at least write when you have settled.”

“Of course,” Castiel smiles. “Take care of that beautiful family, Inias.”

The two men embrace one last time. He leads Gwenhwyfar from the smithy.

Castiel,” Inias calls, and when Castiel turns, he sees not the boy he once loved, but the man who somehow still understands him.

“Love is worth the risk, even if it can’t last forever. I learned that from you. From us,” he says gently, and it sounds like a benediction. 

With one last smile, Castiel turns and leads Gwenhwyfar along the lane. Back to where he’d left—

 

Loki.

 

Castiel stares at the empty post.

The damnable horse was tied fast. Castiel was sure of it. Has he been stolen? Has Dean left without him?

His pulse kicks up—but just as quickly settles when he looks down the street and sees Gabriel’s horse nosing at the door of a dwelling. God’s teeth! How did that equine mischief-maker get loose?

He approaches the dwelling and recognizes it as the alehouse and inn Martin had told them about on their arrival. Could the ridiculous horse have been following after Dean?

He ties Gwenhwyfar to a post, then does the same with Loki before stepping inside.

The alehouse is warm—almost too warm after the cold outside. The air hums with laughter, the scent of woodsmoke and spiced mead curling around him as he steps inside.

His eyes sweep the room—and then stop.

Dean.

Seated at the far end of a long trestle table, a tankard of ale in his hand, shoulders relaxed in easy conversation with the woman across from him. She’s young, long red hair spilling over her shoulders, her smile warm, inviting.

Castiel’s stomach does something unpleasant. He shouldn’t stand here gawking. He should just announce himself. Still, he watches as the woman holds out her hand, palm up, and Dean passes something to her. She lifts it, turning it between her fingers, the light catching against its sleek surface.

Castiel narrows his eyes. A feather.

His feather.

The one he’d given Dean just yesterday.

She twists the feather between her fingers, her head tilting as she speaks—too low to hear, but Castiel knows that expression. A coy smile, soft eyes, a slight lean inward.

That’s a wooing smile if he’s ever seen one.

A wooing smile meant for Dean.

Over his feather.

That he had given Dean.

Castiel glares. Well. Apparently, it only took a single day for Dean to give it away to some—some tavern wench intent on feathering her nest with plumage belonging to someone else. The absurdity of the thought does nothing to douse the heat rising to Castiel’s face. God’s bones, he’s losing his mind!

Dean answers her back, smiling, and that— no. Enough. He’s had enough of this little mating display.

“Dean!”

The name cuts across the room like a blade, sharper than he intended.

Dean’s head snaps up immediately, his expression shifting.

When Dean meets his eyes, Castiel’s annoyance falters—twisting into something raw and desolate. He looks away before it can settle, before he can name it.

He’s being ridiculous. It’s not like the feather had any value. Nor had he given it expressly to Dean. It was just a feather.  So what if it’s in her hands now. Lisa. Amara. What’s one more? Castiel is merely done. Tired. Tired of himself. Tired of this day. 

“We need to go,” he says stiffly, turning on his heel and striding back out through the door, the cold air biting at his heated skin.  

They’re already riding fast down the forest trail before Castiel fully registers that they’ve left the town.

There are over two miles to cover before the cold night settles in, and soon it will be too dangerous to push the horses—not just for the animals' sake, but for their own. There are other dangers lurking in the forests after nightfall, threats that travelers would do well to avoid.

“We need to slow down,” Dean calls.

Castiel reins Gwenhwyfar in with a reluctant nod. 

Even in the thickening dark, he still recognizes where they are. If he remembers correctly, there’s a path ahead that leads out of the forest and to a nearby village—no town like Dunwick, just a scattering of farmer’s homes. Serfs working the far eastern portions of his father’s demesne.

He’d been through it a few times as a child, riding alongside his mother when she carried remedies for the sick. It would take them farther out of their way, adding another half-hour or more to their journey, but at least it would take them over open fields instead of shadowed forest. And with snow on the ground, even the light of a half-full moon would be enough to guide them home.

They pick their way through seemingly endless barren fields, the cold biting at their skin, the moon casting pale grey shadows on the snow.  

The wall of silence between them feels oppressive. 

Castiel decides to ignore it, stiff-backed and brooding, his grip firm on Gwenhwyfar’s reins. He tells himself the silence is comfortable, a reprieve from conversation.

Dean, however, is having none of it. He huffs dramatically. 

“Alright, that’s it. What’s with the silent treatment?”

Castiel doesn’t even glance his way. “There is no silent treatment.”

Dean lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, really? Because I was just thinking—this brooding, glaring, looking-off-into-the-middle-distance routine? Real subtle, Cas.”

Castiel scowls. “I’m thinking, Dean”

“What about?” Dean presses.

Castiel rolls his eyes, annoyed, “I’m allowed to have my own private thoughts, Dean.”

Dean huffs and shakes his head, “All right, Cas. Keep being all secretive. By all means keep hiding things.”

Castiel exhales sharply through his nose. “What are you talking about?”

Dean throws his arms up like he’s performing some grand proclamation. “‘Forgive me Dean, will you excuse us, for a moment?” he says, in a mock-serious impression of Castiel’s voice, exaggerating the furrow in his brow.  He drops back into his natural voice, flat and unimpressed. “That’s what I’m talking about! Moment, my chapped ass cheeks! How long was it before you even noticed I was gone?”

Castiel clenches his jaw, fingers tightening against the leather reins. 

“Wait — you mean after you went off in a huff like a petulant child, right?” He does his own mocking impression of Dean now, dropping his voice a register, exaggerating his posture. “Of course, my lord.’ He flicks his hands in imitation of Dean’s earlier flourish. “My lord?” Cas huffs. “When have I ever lorded my family's status over you?”

“Uhh, maybe that time you threatened to have me flogged?”

“I apologized for that — I thought you were stealing my horse! Anyway you didn’t seem to have a problem with me when I told you I’d come on this little adventure of yours — ’Oh Cas,’ he mocks imitating Dean’s voice again ‘You’d really be saving our bacon!”

Dean gapes at him for a second, then lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, first of all, that’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “What can I say, I’m not an actor. I can’t fake things as easily as you can.”

“Fake things. Fake things?” Dean repeats, directing Loki to sidle up to Gwenhwyfar as his voice rises. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, challenging Castiel with his eyes.

But Castiel is having none of his false outrage.

“Why even make a show of putting the feather on a cord round your neck if you're just going to give it to the first pretty barmaid you encounter, huh?”

Dean looks to the heavens as if praying for strength then quips, “ Why do you even care?”

Gwenhwyfar’s side-stepping away from the warhorse, swishing her tail. Castiel keeps his voice even, controlled. 

“Look Dean, I don’t really care who you decide you want to woo, but the feather was supposed to be for the troupe.”

Dean stares at him. Slowly, his expression shifts into something dangerously amused. “For the troupe?”

“Yes.”

Dean waits.

The silence stretches.

Castiel grits his teeth. His fingers tighten on the reins. Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to, because he just looks at him like that—like he knows damn well Castiel is full of shit, and—

“For you.” 

The words leave him before he can stop them.

Dean goes very still.

Something tightens in Castiel’s chest. He doesn’t know what he expects—mockery, dismissal—but Dean just stares at him, and it’s suddenly too much, too close, too dangerous.

So Castiel barrels forward. “I gave it to you, and you—” Castiel throws a hand out, gesturing furiously—“pawned it off to some feather-swindling tavern wench who smiled and leaned her—” Castiel gestures over his chest “in your direction! Some— plume hustler!”

Dean lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh my God, are you serious? Did you just call her a plume hustler, Cas?” Dean huffs, “And what’s this?” he asks, flicking his hand over his own chest. “What’s the matter, can’t say tits? You’ve lost your mind, do you know that?”

“I can say, dick,” Castiel glares. “And plume hustler’s a perfectly accurate description,” he snaps, his face hot. He presses his lips together, refusing to look Dean in the face again. He knows it’s foolish and irrational —but it’s gnawed at him ever since they left the tavern.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Dean grins like an idiot. “What’s next, you gonna duel her for ownership of the feather? Swear an oath of vengeance?”

Castiel glares ahead, jaw clenched. “I’m simply saying—” he pauses. What in God’s name is he saying? — “you don’t just—give away gifts. It’s unbecoming.” 

“Unbecom–” Dean gives him a sidelong look, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “You ever think maybe you’re overreacting?”

Castiel exhales sharply through his nose. “You ever think maybe you’re under- reacting?”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. And anyway, at least I didn’t disappear for half the damn afternoon.”

“I’m not the one who disappeared! You did! And anyway, maybe you should stop acting as if you—” Castiel catches himself, jaw tightening. He looks away, eyes fixed on the stalk-scarred fields, willing himself to let it go.

Dean isn’t having it. 

“Oh, don’t you even try to back out now. Stop acting like what, Cas?” His voice is tight, low, demanding. “Come on! Have the balls to say it if you’re gonna say it!”

Something rises in Castiel’s chest. Dean wants to know what he’s acting like?

Fine.

“Stop acting like you can’t stand to have anyone draw their gaze away from you even for a second. God forbid Dean Winchester isn’t the center of attention every moment of the day!”

Loki flicks his ears back, tail swishing. Dean barely notices.

“That’s adorable, Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes. The warhorse snorts—loud, insistent shifts beneath him, tossing his head sharply. 

Gwenhwyfar’s steps are jittery, but Castiel reins her in. 

“So you think I’m jealous?” Dean scoffs, looking pointedly at Castiel as he and Loki skitter closer. The horse side-steps, stamping a hoof. “That’s real funny, Cas! You’ve been on my ass all this time about a feather and I’m the one acting jealous?” 

Castiel glares at him “I was never on your—”

Loki tosses his head again, ears pinning back, muscles bunching—Dean’s eyes snap from Castiel to the horse.

Too late.

Loki rears – not just a little – it’s a full, wild lift, hooves pawing the air sending Gwenhwyfar skittering sideways.

“Dean!” Castiel reins in Gwenny while Dean reaches desperately for something to grasp onto .

Dean should fall.

He doesn’t.

By some miracle he manages to hold on, arms clasping Loki’s neck to keep from tumbling off, but he’s completely unseated —sprawled face-down across Loki’s back his body dangerously close to falling.

Castiel inhales sharply and reacts before thinking—hand shooting out to whatever he can grasp to keep him from toppling off.

Castiel grips him tight to steady him, until Loki finally settles himself again. 

Heart pounding, hand still heavy on Dean, he closes his eyes and lets out a breath of relief giving Dean a reassuring squeeze, then opens his eyes.  

Dean’s still lying over Loki’s back, arms stretched around the horse’s neck, but he’s staring at Castiel, eyebrows raised—

Wait.

Castiel’s brow furrows— then it hits him. 

His hand is still on Dean –and not just on Dean— but fingers fully flexed, curving around the firm yet fleshy left cheek of—

Oh god!

Castiel pulls his hand away like it’s been burned in a fire.

And then—slowly, deliberately—Dean lifts his head, peering at Castiel with exactly the kind of smirk that makes him insufferable.

“Well, Cas,” Dean is grinning now. “Didn’t know you cared.”

Castiel freezes. His stomach clenches, heart hammering against his ribs. “I was trying to help!” he hisses, face burning as the blood rises to his cheeks.

“Seemed like you were trying to help yourself.” Dean shifts slightly—not enough to right himself, just enough to wiggle, which has to be a deliberate choice.

Castiel glares, reaching out—this time to shove Dean off Loki completely.

Dean yelps, barely catching himself. He turns back, laughing, breathless, tunic and cloak twisted awry and looking so smug Castiel wants to punch him.

“This isn’t funny, Dean!” He glances quickly around them for any sign of humanity—as if Michael is just waiting — or his father —just waiting to pounce on Castiel’s next sin. 

Dean’s laughter peals as he rights himself on the horse. 

Castiel spurs Gwenhwyfar forward, not far– but he needs space to breathe — to compose himself — he needs space apart from Dean — from his smug face, his knowing laugh.

Except for the sound of a mild breeze and a distant owl a silence falls over the snow-crusted fields. Castiel’s breath comes in puffs of white clouds as he tries to calm himself. He forces himself to breathe deeply, slowly —frost filling his nose as he breaths in and then out of his mouth…they still have miles to go.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is low, gentle behind him. “Hey, come on. Don’t be like that.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Flashes of a long ago summer pass before his minds eye. Things he’d rather forget. Discovery, threats, pain. But also wonderful things — laughter, joy, tenderness.

There’s  the huff of a horse behind him and a warm, tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Castiel?”

He turns. Turns and looks at Dean. Really looks. Not the shy fleeting glances of Christmas night, nor the frustrated glare of their earlier spat, but looks.

Castiel turns his eyes on Dean’s and he wonders. 

Is it true? 

Could you want this? 

What are you willing to risk?

Without even words, Dean seems to know what Castiel’s asking, because his eyes darken a fraction, his mouth snaps shut.

The air between them tightens.

Dean blinks once, then twice, gaze flicking lower. His lips part like he wants to say something, wants to argue, wants to—

Something draws Dean’s attention and his eyes widen suddenly – he looks forward and sucks in a breath.

“Cas!” he says, eyes flicking to the road ahead. His voice is low and urgent as he pulls Loki to a halt. 

Castiel follows, halting Gwenhwyfar and sees her a second later. 

A child, like a wraith, stands in their path. Wrapped in rags. Thin. Hollow-eyed. Watching them.

For a moment

“Cas, where are we?”

Castiel barely hears him —his eyes are glued on those of the spectral child’s in front of them. 

‘Cas?”

He tears them away and scans the landscape.

“Lowfield,” Castiel answers. But the vision up ahead is nothing like what he remembers. The village was poor, yes, but not like this.

“Strangers!” the child yells, running ahead, as Castiel and Dean inch their way closer to the dark shapes of the structures ahead.

The dwellings of Lowfield cluster together as if huddled against winter’s piercing chill. Crumbling wattle and daub huts with their thatched roofs provide a windbreak, in the center of which a low cookfire burns.

The bitter scent of burning peat drifts toward them, heavy and thick—not the warm, resinous smell of woodsmoke, but the sharp, acrid scent known to those who have nothing left to burn. Several women look up at their approach. They tend a single kettle, its contents barely more than water and scraps. A meager meal, shared out of necessity.

They ride quietly past, dipping their heads to the women who watch cautiously. A young teenage boy has taken up position near them presumably to act in their defense if necessary. A baby’s wail cuts through the hush. From a doorway, a young woman shifts the child nursing in her arms, adjusting her blouse as she watches the strangers pass.

Several men are tending to a house on the far end, patching a roof where the thatch has been pulled away by the winds. One of them approaches, broad-shouldered but gaunt, his tunic frayed at the edges, though clean. He stops short of the horses, lifting a hand in greeting.

“M’lord.”

Castiel inclines his head. “Good evening.”

“You be from the manor,” he states. “My lad tells me you’re the one brought them a soulin this St. Stephen’s past,” he tells Dean. A child of about six runs from behind the group of men and clings to his father’s leg. 

Dean’s eyes flick questioningly to Castiel, then back to the man. “I did,” he tells him.

“The man nods, “Kind of ye to share your bounty with us. May we offer you a draught or a bowl of turnip stew in thanks?”

Castiel and Dean look at one another. Castiel marvels that those with so little would even offer. More faces appear in the doorways, shadowed figures watching from the half-crumbling wattle and daub homes. A woman stands at the threshold of a hut, a shawl wrapped tight around thin shoulders, a small child half-hidden in her skirts. Further ahead, a man crouches near a broken fence, a wooden bowl in his hands as he doles out a meal from the meager pot at his feet. Even in the dark, Castiel can see how little is in it.

“We thank you,” Castiel says. “But—”

“A small draught to warm ourselves would be most welcome," Dean says, jumping down from Loki’s back. "But just enough to keep the frost from biting. My companion and I can share—wouldn’t want to drink enough to start seeing double and end up riding in circles. Right, m’lord?"

Castiel is out of his depth, so follows Dean’s lead. “Certainly,” he nods. “Most obliged to you,” he says, swinging down from Gwenhwyfar’s back. 

The man goes to fetch them something while the women tending the pot call the others to supper. A line of children and youth’s form, wooden bowls in hand, each of them getting a ladle of the thin broth as somewhere someone is playing a reed flute. 

“These people have little left but their pride,” Dean whispers. “A man loses that and he’ll lose everything. Just a swallow will do them no worse than life’s dealt them already.”

Castiel isn’t so sure. 

The men finish their repair and approach together. The one who first greeted them passes a jug to Castiel with a nod. 

He tips it back, and the fire hits his throat like a blade. He barely stifles a cough, catching the gleam in Dean’s eyes as he passes the jug. Dean takes a swallow and smacks his lips.

"Wholesome warmth," he declares.

Castiel swallows hard against the burn. Warmth, yes—but wholesome? He doubts he’ll taste anything for days.

The jug makes its way around the circle as they exchange a few words and bits of news with the villagers. Then, after thanking them again, they mount their horses and make their way past the homes and into the fields once more.

They move on.

A few paces later, Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head.

"There’s grain and salt pork at the manor," he says, his voice low but edged.

It isn’t a question.

Castiel keeps his gaze forward. "There is."

Dean huffs a breath, not quite a scoff, but close. "Wouldn’t take much."

Castiel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Dean’s right, and they both know it.

They ride on in silence. But unlike before, the weight that has settled over them feels like a burden they shoulder together.

 

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By the time they reach the wooden gates of the manor Castiel’s toes are numb within his boots. As late as it feels, it can’t be much past the start of dinner in the great hall. 

Maybe he’ll skip dinner in the great hall tonight. He’s in no mood for drinking and dancing. A soak in a hot tub of water would feel really good right about now. Even as he thinks it he glances over at Dean, realizing the day might not be over for him. Will he need to head to the hall to entertain the guests? Or can he have some time to rest, after spending the entire day ensuring Castiel made it to Dunwick and back safe and sound?

He should rest, Castiel thinks, the words forming before he even realizes it.

Then, like a dark cloud, he thinks of Amara. Perhaps Dean is hoping to spend time with her again tonight.

Before he can dwell on it, Brother Robert strides toward them, his expression grave.

A cold weight settles in Castiel’s gut.

“Is Gabriel alright?” Castiel asks, already swinging off Gwenhwyfar before the man can speak.

“Gabriel’s fine,” he says. Brother Robert turns to Dean. “It’s your brother.”

The relief Castiel feels is fleeting—immediately replaced by something sharper.

“Sammy?” Dean jumps down. “Where is he? What’s wrong?”

There’s something raw in Dean’s voice, and Castiel feels his stomach twist.

“Easy now, son. He’s resting with Rowena in the rooms where you’re lodged. Had a difficult afternoon, though. Went with another from your troupe to build the fire and warm the wine for the riding party. Overdid it. Cold air made his lungs seize up. Rough going for a while, but he’s resting easy now. Gotta keep that boy from exerting himself.”

Castiel barely registers the rest. He’s already cataloging what he knows of Sam’s illness—of how frail he had seemed, of how Dean had spoken of protecting him.

He turns to Dean just as Dean turns to him, something pleading in his expression.

“Cas, can you get Loki back to the stable for me?”

Castiel understands what Dean is really asking. Let me go. Let me be there. Let me not waste another second.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel promises, quickly taking Loki’s reins. “Go. Take care of your brother.”

Dean nods once, sharp and grateful, before turning and hurrying toward their small rooms in the outbuildings.

Castiel watches him go, urgency in every step. He exhales, his grip tightening on Loki’s reins as the animal tosses his head. All the sharp words exchanged between them—it all feels so petty now. Sam had been struggling for breath while Castiel had been wasting his own, throwing accusations at Dean in the cold.

He rubs a hand over his face, weary, ashamed.

Tomorrow, he thinks, staring after Dean’s retreating form. 

Tomorrow, I’ll make it right.

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Notes:

This was a fun one to write. Hope you enjoyed it! Things are shifting! Let me know what you think!

Chapter 14: The Fifth Day of Christmas - Part V - Devil's Bargain

Notes:

Please make sure you've read the tags. No TW's in this chapter, but some ahead.

 

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Dean sits on the rushes of the cold dirt floor next to Sam’s pallet while Rowena replaces the linen plaster from Sam’s chest and applies another of mustard and comfrey.

 

“Can’t sleep with you staring at me all night,” Sam wheezes, though the heaviness of his eyes says otherwise. 

 

“Tough, Sam.” For once Dean humors his brother by not calling him Sammy, knowing that it would only lead to Sam quite literally wasting his breath to argue. “I’m sitting here because you happened to snag the warmest place in this shack. What?” Dean’s eyebrows rise, “Did you think I was sitting here for your benefit? Nah – you’re hogging all the heat,” he tells him, rubbing his hands together and holding them towards the fire, on the other side of Sam’s pallet. 

 

Sam huffs, closing his eyes. Dean takes that as surrender and smoothes the hair, sweat slick with the effort of breathing, from his brow. 

 

“Rest, Samuel,” Rowena commands. She rises and picks her way past the sleeping pallets laid out for the rest of the troupe to fetch more medicinal ingredients from her pack. It takes a moment, with just the hearth fire to light the room, but she finds what she needs and sits down on her own pallet to compound a few fragrant herbs in a mortar and pestle. 

 

Near the crackling warmth of the fire, Sam seems to have drifted into a light sleep.

 

“He was fine this morning when I left him. What happened, Rowena?”

 

Rowena shrugged. “Foolish boy. I thought he listened when I told him he should rest today and tend the fire but the boy banked it and took the first opportunity to sneak out to the bonfire in the fields, while I…” she huffs and shakes her head. “While I tended to Gabriel.”

 

Gabriel.

 

He’s another issue for another time. Right now Rowena shouldn’t be guilting herself for not watching over Sam. That’s Dean’s responsibility, and right now she might not be saying it, but that hint of annoyance in her eyes is a cover for more vulnerable feelings. Rowena is one of the most caring people Dean has come across, but damn if she’ll ever admit it.

 

“Sam’s stubborn,” Dean admits. “I know he feels he’s not pulling his weight. He probably thought he’d be a greater help to Mick and the others out there.”

 

“His constitution isn’t meant for exerting himself in this cold,” she says plainly.

 

Dean knows this. Every winter and spring is a gauntlet they run trying to get Sam through the worst of the ravages of weather and the deprivation of life with no permanent home. It’s no accident that Dean is front and center of most of the troupe’s entertainments. He’s made himself indispensable, so that at least Sammy could have the protection of family. Crowley took them both in and off the street and ensured that they survived up until now for reasons Dean still wasn’t sure he understood, but he’d never let Crowley regret it. Especially now, when the needs of his brother’s growing body began to outpace the small portions they got by on in times past. 

 

Still, Sammy was growing weaker and frailer by the day. The journey here had almost done him in. Dean doubted he could make another one like that, and this far north there were fewer opportunities to ply their trade than in larger towns like London. No doubt they’d be traveling a distance once Yule was over. He needed to find another way. At the very least they needed a beast of burden. One that Sam could rest on or even ride the whole way to their next destination. And for that, Dean needs coin. 

 

Dean thinks of Amara and wonders if he should risk paying her a visit, but Sam’s chest is still so tight, he dares not leave his side. 

 

A knock on the door has Dean rising to open it. Brother Robert nods and sweeps past into the small chamber, letting off a stream of curses when he nearly trips over a sleeping pallet.

 

"God's teeth, would ye watch where you're going?" Rowena snaps. "Stumbling about like an ox in a smithy!"

 

"Well maybe if this bloody room weren’t laid out like a damned trap," Robert grumbles, righting himself.

 

"And maybe if you had the sense God gave a goose, you’d look where you’re stepping." Rowena shakes her head, looking back to her herbs. "Eejit," she mutters. 

 

Robert squints at her, then turns to Dean. "Eejit? What the hell kind of word is that?"

 

Rowena lifts her chin. "It means fool, you great lumbering oaf."

 

Robert grunts, rubbing his chin. "Hmm. Good word." He rolls his shoulders like he's settling it into his vocabulary for future use.

 

"What, pray tell, are you doing here?" Rowena asks in her imperious tone.

 

"If we’re lucky, doling out some healing," Brother Robert replies. "I’m gonna need that mortar and pestle," he announces, gesturing toward her.

 

Rowena lifts her chin. "Look, I thank ye for carrying the lad home, but–"

 

"You carried Sammy back here? From the field?" Dean asks.

 

"Aye," Brother Robert responds, pulling a satchel over his head. "Wasn’t easy. All gangly limbs, that one."

 

Dean touches the monk’s arm, drawing his attention.

 

"Thank you," he says, his jaw tight. "I’m in your debt."

 

Brother Robert chuckles. "See this?" He gestures to the robes he wears. "I gave up keeping score when I put on Benedictine black."

 

Rowena, not to be ignored, clears her throat. "As I was saying, I thank you for bringing him back to us, but if you think I’m going to let you use your sanctified swill on this sweet boy, I’ll disabuse you of that notion right now, Sirrah! The last person I know who received monk’s draughts was dispatched to their maker with vehement gripings of the bowels!"

 

Robert stands taller, and for a moment it looks as though he has a fiery retort on his tongue—but he stops short. Dean glances between them. Rowena’s jaw is tight, her eyes bright with anger and something else… the telltale signs of fear and sadness. Brother Robert’s posture softens, his lips pressing together with an understanding nod.

 

"You’re right to be suspicious. I can tell by the scent of that poultice you’re a skilled healer and there are a lot of useless louts mixing up swill and prayers and passing it off as medicine. Let me guess, mustard and comfrey? And those herbs you’re pulverizing—something to make the goose fat you’re rendering here a little less offending to the senses when you spread it on his chest, am I right?"

Rowena doesn’t respond, just narrows her eyes and lifts her chin higher.

 

Robert shakes his head. "Witch-blooded Scots—" he mutters, "always thinking they know best," to which Rowena huffs, crossing her arms.

 

"Mule-headed Englishman!" she bites back. "Always assuming a woman learned her craft from whispers and moonlight instead of proper study."

 

Bobby harumphs, eyeing her as he pulls a linen bag from his satchel. "Look here," he tells her, gesturing to Dean with a flick of his head as well. "This here is black seed," he says, pouring out a handful of tiny black seeds.

 

Dean peers into his hand, and Rowena, arms crossed, leans in, looking very unimpressed. Then her eyes narrow, and she grabs Dean’s arm, pulling him next to her to form a shield between Brother Robert and Sam.

 

"Just like I’d feared. If you think I’m going to let you dose that boy with Hemlock, you’re more a drunken fool than you look!"

 

"Dammit, woman, look closer!" he complains, pulling her toward the light of the fire. "That look like Hemlock to you?"

 

She squints in the dim light, so Robert picks out a seed and presses it into her hand. "Feel that?"

 

She frowns, rolling it between her fingers.

 

"Rough, ain’t it? Wrinkled." He turns to Dean, explaining, "Hemlock’s smooth."

 

Rowena purses her lips. "Aye, but I’ve seen hemlock with fine ridges—"

 

"Fine ridges, sure, but this ain’t curved. And here—" He pinches one between his fingernails, splitting it open. A sharp, pungent scent wafts up. "That smell. You ever known Hemlock to smell like that?"

 

Rowena hesitates. Sniffs. "Pepper and smoke," she murmurs.

 

Bobby grins, satisfied. "There you go." He tosses a seed into his mouth, chewing. "And if I start keelin’ over, then you can gloat."

 

"Takes more than a single seed to fell a man your size," she huffs.

 

"True, but dizziness, sweats, paralysis of the tongue spreading out from the point of contact." Again he turns to Dean. "I wouldn’t be yappin' here with you by now if it was Hemlock."

 

Rowena watches, waiting for any sign of sickness.

 

Robert takes her silence as an opportunity to explain, "The Saracens call it Habbat al-Baraka. ‘The Blessed Seed,’ and if ever the Lord gave a blessing to mankind, this is it. Doesn’t matter what God or gods you recognize, for that matter. They say the folk of the Hind and the Greek pagans knew of its benefits. Some folks say it cures everything but death."

 

Dean huffs, shaking his head. “Sounds like a devil’s bargain if I ever heard one.”

 

Rowena lifts a brow. “Aye, well, we all make ‘em. Only fools think they come without a price.” She eyes the small black seeds in Brother Robert’s hand. Dean watches as she plucks one out, holding it up to the light before popping it in her mouth and breaking it with her teeth.

 

"Medicine from the east," Rowena considers, satisfied that the small kernel produced no ill effect. 

 

Robert nods.

 

"You trust the remedies of the Saracens?" Dean frowns.

 

Robert’s eyes darken on him. "I trust the men who saved my life. And it wasn’t the ones with red crosses on their chests."

 

Dean’s brow knits, but Brother Robert continues. 

 

"You see enough good men slaughtered in the name of Christ, and you start asking yourself who the real heathens are,” he says as he focuses on measuring a small portion of the seed onto a cloth. “Saracens tend to the sick. We burn them alive."

 

Dean has no response for that.

 

Robert looks up pointedly at Dean as he tucks the rest of the seed back in his bag. "I have Saracen medicine to thank for not rotting in a field outside Acre. Now,” he shares a glance between Rowena and Dean, “if you two are done with your Inquisition, I’ll take that mortar and pestle and some honey, please. In nigh under an hour, I’ll have a decoction your brother can take by mouth that should help set him right."

 

"We’ve no more honey," Rowena reports.

 

"Well, go fetch some!" Brother Robert orders Dean.

 

"Yes, Sir!" he nods, turning quickly to go out in search of some honey.

 

Dean steps out the door and does a face plant onto the icy ground. “Son of a bitch!” he mutters.

 

“Dean?” 

 

About twenty feet away, face covered by shadows stands Castiel. As he steps away from the eaves of the next outbuilding, the moonlight reveals a sheepish expression. 

 

“Sorry,” he mutters as he rushes to help Dean up. 

 

“What the heck is this?” Dean asks, looking back at the offending pile that sent him careening onto his face.

 

“It’s…a basket,” Castiel says, looking shyly at their feet, but as Dean examines the basket he sees Castiel sneak a glance. “Forgive me, I didn’t want to intrude but figured you could use some provisions.”

 

“Most people knock when they bring gifts, Cas,” Dean says with a grateful smile. “Thank you,” he says, extending his hand. Castiel looks up, a smile spreading on his lips as he takes Dean’s hand to shake. “I don’t suppose there’s any honey in there, is there?”

 

“Umm…no. But I can get some.”

 

“I’d really appreciate that, Cas. Seems Brother Robert has something he thinks’ll help Sam breathe better, but he needs honey, I guess.”

 

“I’ll be back,” Castiel nods, his eyes wide and earnest, as if he’s about to embark on a holy quest. He then turns and runs toward the manor’s kitchens. 

 

Dean watches, thinking back now to their argument on the road. He feels ashamed. Clearly there was something between Cas and that blacksmith. The thought of it makes Dean’s jaw clench even now. 

 

He’s not being fair. He knows it.  And perhaps Dean did overreact when he saw how the blacksmith looked at Castiel, when Castiel refused to even look back at him...perhaps Cas was just overwhelmed.

 

Dean watches as Castiel’s form shrinks, passing through shadows to the light of the guards’ brazier as he passes.

 

So Castiel has a past.

 

Sam would say he’s jumping to conclusions, but Castiel had all the manner of someone who’d come face to face with a former suitor back there in the town. 

 

Castiel disappears into the side door of the kitchen before Dean realizes he’s been watching him like a lovestruck fool this whole time. Dean sighs, turning and righting the basket he’d toppled when he tripped. There’s bread wrapped in a cloth -still warm. He opens a small wrapped bundle of cloth coated in beeswax and finds butter! There’s cheese and apples, two large wineskins, and… apple tarts!

 

Oh god! Dean can’t even remember the last time he had apple tarts! 

 

Dean’s chest fills with warmth at Castiel’s thoughtfulness. He wonders if he hadn’t caught Castiel in the act of sneaking away if he’d have even claimed credit for the gift. 

 

Shit. He has to stop thinking about the man.

 

It’s just gratitude. That’s all. Because who even does this? What noble has ever thought to bring fresh bread and butter and apple tarts? Who thinks to do something so... so damn kind?

 

Cas does.

 

Lately, everything seems to point Dean’s thoughts back in Castiel’s direction. He’ll sing a song he’s sung a hundred times before, that now will conjure up thoughts of the man. He’ll find himself gazing off into nothing in his down time, just thinking about the way Cas gets all flustered and cute when Dean teases him –the way he scowls and glares with a look that makes his blood rush south, stirring something deep in his belly. Or he’ll let himself indulge in little fantasies about him, like when Dean rolls to his side and closes his eyes each night, after bedding Amara, only to clutch a bolster as he drifts to sleep, letting himself imagine it’s Castiel, whose body presses against him.

 

Dangerous little fantasies. 

 

Because they’ll only lead to disappointment. 

 

Dean sighs. He needs to get his head out of his ass and fast and stop thinking about the man. It’s not like he and Dean have a future together, anyway. 

 

He carries the basket into the small ramshackle dwelling. 

 

“God’s wounds, boy. I asked for honey, not the whole kitchen.”

 

“Cas–uh, Castiel brought this. I guess he figured Sam wouldn’t be able to get to the great hall for dinner.”

 

“Ah..” Rowena smirks. “So he brought young Samuel some provisions.”

 

“No honey though," Dean remarks, ignoring her teasing look. "Cas is fetching some, now.”

 

No sooner are the words out of Dean’s mouth than there’s a knock at the door.

 

He moves to answer it, but Rowena is quicker, sweeping the door open and ushering Castiel inside. He stands in the low firelight, cheeks flushed from the cold, a small pot of honey clutched tight in his hands like he’s not sure what to do with it.

 

“I—I just wanted to give this to Dean—or you, I guess, Brother Robert,” Castiel says, glancing between them.

 

His eyes flick to Dean’s, catching for just a second too long.

 

"Thank you, Cas," Dean says, offering a grateful smile, but Cas just nods stiffly, like he’s afraid of intruding, like he might bolt before Dean can even thank him.

 

Castiel turns to leave, but Brother Robert interrupts.

 

“First of all, enough with all this ‘Brother Robert’ nonsense. The name’s Bobby. Secondly—you, stay.” He points at Castiel.

 

Cas blinks. “Me?”

 

“Yes, you, ya eejit!" Bobby flashes a quick wink at Rowena, curbing a smile. Rowena arches a brow, then gives the smallest nod—quick, approving. “If you’re gonna be helping me at St. Cuthbert’s, you’ll need to learn decoctions and other remedies," he continues. "No time like the present.” 

 

Bobby jerks his head toward the fire, where a cloth-lined strainer is already set up over a waiting bowl. The small cauldron on the fire has taken on the color of dark ale, steam curling up from it in lazy tendrils.

 

“Come on, then. Take that,” he says, pointing to the simmering pot, “And bring it over to that bowl to strain it,” he finishes, indicating a cloth-lined bowl on the shack’s only table.

 

Castiel hesitates but steps forward. Bobby hands him a thick cloth. Castiel uses it to grasp the handle of the small pot so as not to burn his hands as he removes it from the fire.

 

Then Sam lets out a sharp, rattling cough that escalates into a fit.

 

Dean whirls, dropping to his knees beside the pallet. Sam’s breath is a thin, reedy wheeze between each shuddering gasp, his face half-buried in the blanket.

 

“Hey, Sammy. Easy. Try to stay calm and breathe slow, alright?”

 

Sam curls inward, coughing again, his whole body wracked with effort.

 

Dean feels Cas watching. He doesn’t look up, just keeps his hand firm on Sam’s shoulder, grounding him, but he can feel Cas' presence like a weight in the room.

 

Then Sam makes a choking sound, his body jerking futilely in a quest for air.

 

“Shit,” Bobby mutters, dropping to the floor on Sam’s other side.

 

“Get him turned over!” he barks, and together Bobby, Rowena, and Dean roll him, Bobby striking Sam’s back again and again until the choking changes into a long gasp—then another coughing fit.

 

He’s breathing! That’s all Dean can think as his brother continues to gasp and wheeze. The harrowing sound is proof, at least, that some air is getting through.

 

Dean barely breathes himself. Sam’s skin is damp, his eyes fluttering, caught in the haze between waking and fever-dreams.

 

“This boy’s burning up,” Bobby says, pressing the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead as they lay him back down. He grabs Sam’s wrist, checking his pulse. His other hand presses firm to his chest, feeling the rattle beneath thin skin.

 

Rowena’s already moving, grabbing cloths, reaching for the bowl of cool water.

 

Dean keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy?” he pleads, but his brother is so pale, so still.

 

“No time to dawdle, boy!”

 

Dean’s eyes snap to Bobby, but the monk isn’t speaking to him. He’s looking at Castiel, who in turn is staring, wide-eyed and ghostly pale, at Sam. His knuckles are white around the pot handle, his shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something.

 

Then Cas’ eyes shift to Dean’s, and Dean knows Cas sees his fear.

 

“Back to it!” Bobby snaps. “That pot ain’t gonna strain itself!”

 

Cas blinks, snapping out of whatever thought had taken hold, and Dean sees something change in him. He nods once and steps forward, pulling the pot toward the cloth-lined strainer already set over the bowl.

 

Dean is knocked back for a moment as Rowena and Bobby go about stripping Sam out of his tunic, Rowena bearing cool, wet cloths to bathe down his fevered skin.

 

Cas doesn’t hesitate now. He picks up the ladle, pouring the hot decoction through the linen filter. The rich, dark liquid drips through, leaving the spent seeds behind.

 

Dean glances at Cas again. His jaw is tight, his brows drawn—focused. His hands move with purpose, steady and sure, fingers tightening on the ladle.

 

“Slow and steady now, boy,” Bobby orders Castiel. “Pour it through that cloth.”

 

Cas hesitates just a breath. “What is this?” he asks, his voice strained. “Will it help him?”

 

“If this don’t help him, nothing will,” Bobby remarks grimly.

 

Cas lifts his now-terrified gaze to Dean.

 

Dean nods. “You’re doing good, Cas.” His voice is raw, his fear bleeding through.

 

Dean sees the bob in Castiel’s throat as he swallows hard.

 

“Easy, boy,” Bobby instructs. “Slow and steady so it doesn’t spill over. That’s black seed, ground down and simmered to get the oils to release. Now, all that’s left is straining it proper so it don’t turn gritty going down.”

 

The tip of Cas’ tongue peeks between his lips as he concentrates, pouring the decoction through the linen. The last of the liquid drips through.

 

Sam coughs again—a deep, painful sound that makes Dean’s fingers curl tighter into the blanket.

 

Dean glances up, watching Cas now.

 

The usual awkward hesitancy is gone, replaced with something else, something more… deliberate.

 

“Now, the honey. Just a spoonful—no more.”

 

Cas nods, dipping the spoon into the honey pot, his fingers steady despite the tension in his jaw. He lets it drizzle into the warm decoction, then reaches for the ladle again to stir.

 

Dean watches him.

 

Cas stirs, slow, careful.

 

Dean doesn’t know why he’s watching this so closely—why something about it makes his chest go tight.

 

Maybe it’s the way Cas’ lips press together in concentration, the way his shoulders set like this is the most important thing in the world.

 

As if it’s everything.

 

And to Dean, it is.

 

Cas glances up—and for the first time, he looks right at Dean.

 

Dean’s chest tightens. Because he knows—he knows this matters to Cas too.

 

Cas hands the bowl to Bobby.

 

Bobby nods, satisfied. “There. Now if we can just get it in him. Helps the throat, the chest, the belly—good for fever, good for cough. Black seed’s a miracle, they say.”

 

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat, glancing at Sam, then back at Cas, who hands him the small wooden spoon he’d used to mix in the honey.

 

Bobby shifts Sam forward again, high enough so he won’t choke on the medicine.

 

Dean’s arm wraps around his brother’s bare shoulders. “Here you go, Sammy,” he says, bringing a spoonful of the decoction to Sam’s lips. “Gotta swallow this, and you’ll be up doing cartwheels by the morning.”

 

Sam coughs and gags at the bitter taste, which even with honey is potent, but he swallows it all.

 

Rowena continues to soothe his brow with cool, wet cloths.

 

For a few minutes, there is little movement or sound, as even Bobby waits, listening intently for any change in Sam’s breathing.

 

Then, by degrees, Sam’s body seems to relax. His breathing evens out—beginning to sound a little easier.

 

Dean exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging.

 

He looks up.

 

Cas is still watching him, but he closes his eyes and lets out a long breath of release — his hand gripping the table as if it was all that was holding him up.

 

Dean glances down once again to Sammy, smoothing the hair from his brow one more time before rising. 

 

Rowena and Bobby are conferring quietly off to the side about future treatment. 

 

Dean puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezes. 

 

“Thank you, Cas.”

 

“Don’t thank me Dean,” he answers. “I—” Castiel averts his gaze. “I feel as though — I mean, I just wish I could do more,” he says, the awkward hesitancy back.

 

Dean notices his hand is shaking. Castiel makes a fist to hide it — and when Castiel looks up, Dean wants to kiss him.

 

Instead, he fumbles in the basket and pulls out one of the wine skins and pops the top off, handing it to Castiel.

 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says before tipping it back and taking several desperate gulps. 

 

“I —” Cas begins again. “I should let you rest,” he says, handing the wineskin back to Dean. “But if you need me…” he drifts off.

 

“I’ll find you Cas,” Dean smiles. “It’s been a long day for you too,” he tells Castiel. “Get some sleep.”

 

He slaps a hand to Castiel’s shoulder again, in gratitude, when what he really wants to do is pulls Castiel close and lose himself under the touch of those hands, that just moments before, moved with such determination and purpose as they tended to the medicine that now has his brother breathing in a somewhat restful sleep. 

 

Castiel in turn, clasps Dean’s shoulder as well, giving a squeeze before his hand drops away. He turns and leaves them.

 

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An hour or so later, Sam has finally settled into a more restful sleep. His skin has cooled and his breathing has remained full and loose, the miracle seed having been effective. Dean wakes him briefly only to administer more of the blackseed decoction according to the monk’s instruction. Rowena, who has not left their side all night, rests on a nearby pallet. 

 

Outside, there’s the sound of boisterous voices, distant but approaching. Dean gets up to head off the troupe before they burst forth, waking Rowena and Sam. He steps outside with a finger to his lips in the cold moonlight and Garth and Aaron immediately slow their steps, quieting down.

 

“What’s wrong, Amigo?” 

 

Dean shakes his head with a grin at Garth’s greeting. He picked up the word from a Spanish maid at a job they did near London and has used it ever since. 

 

“How’s Sam?” Aaron asks.

 

“He’s doing better. Should sleep a few more hours now if that monk’s medicines are true. But I need a favor from you.”

 

Both of the young men gather closer. “Of course,” Aaron says.

 

“Have they left the Great Hall?” he asks of the manor guests.

 

“Many have, but some linger there drinking. Most of them are too drunk to realize the entertainments have wound down. Crowley sent us ahead. The others will be coming shortly, I’ve no doubt.”

 

Dean nods, glancing over their shoulders, past the still lit brazier and the half burnt torches that brace the manor’s entrance. “I need to go out, but I need one of you to come for me immediately if Sam worsens. I don’t care if you have to wake the whole manor up. Just come to the guest wing and knock at the fourth door on the left of the corridor, and if I don’t hear you just get really loud and call my name.” 

 

“Sure thing, Dean,” Garth says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Aaron nods solemnly. 

 

They didn’t ask what errand Dean was on. They knew. All of them at one point or another had found themselves in need of ‘extra’ work. They wouldn’t judge him for it. 

 

A short while later he makes his way to the Great Hall. A few knights linger close to the hearth, talking quietly over a mug of ale while they watch the Yule log burn. Near the dias, a few of the older lords and knights who are usually with Lord Charles are laughing over a story or joke. Andy looks up and gives Dean a quick nod. He plays a small hand drum while Mick bows a psalter beside him in a soft, calming tune. A few other stragglers wander about conversing with one another, but it looks as though the ladies are all already abed.

 

Dean slips out and heads toward the corridor where the guest quarters are situated. He nods as he passes a guard —they’re used to him by now—and heads for Amara’s room.

 

He knocks softly. He can hear movement inside. A moment passes and he tries again, louder this time. 

 

There’s a loud yelp followed by laughter. Dean presses his ear to the door, attempting to hear. He jumps back at the sound of a bolt sliding back and the door opens.

 

Standing in the doorway, glaring down at him is a man in his late twenties, perhaps thirty. His broad chest and muscular form are displayed by his half-dressed state, for he’s shirtless. Hastily drawn up woolen chausses hang low on his hips as two feminine arms slip around the man’s waist from behind. Amara kisses the man’s neck as she tugs him close. 

 

“Go back to bed,” Amara purrs in the man’s ear. She stares up at him with a smirk as he turns toward her and pops up on her toes, kissing him playfully, as if Dean isn’t even there.

 

Amara slaps the retreating knight on the rear with a laugh and Dean snaps out of his surprise to turn and go. 

 

“Yes, Dean?” she asks, her voice flat, turning her attention to him with an impatient expression. 

 

“I-uh,” Dean averts his eyes. “Sorry my lady. I didn’t realize you–”

 

“Didn’t realize I’m not some doe-eyed milkmaid with nothing better to do than sigh after you?”

 

“No! I mean – it’s just I thought we had an arr—”

 

“An arrangement. Yes, Dean,” she says sternly. “We had an arrangement. One that you decided to break by going off on your little riding adventure today.”

 

“Sir Gabriel came down ill. I had to–”

 

“Gabriel came down drunk you mean. Whatever agreement Crowley and your little troupe of vagabonds have with my nephew, it’s not my problem. If Crowley or whatever his name is can’t manage a day of revels without you, then I suppose I’m better off in a real man’s bed." 

 

Dean’s jaw tightens, chin lifting at the insinuation but he bites back a retort. She’s trying to get him angry. Her gaze slides away to the man off to the side of her room. 

 

“Besides, Sir William is a man, not a boy still playing at being one.” She looks Dean up and down with a cold assessing gaze. 

 

She looks him over, her expression cool, unimpressed. "You should stick to charming kitchen maids and widows with soft hearts, Dean. Or do you prefer blue-eyed bastards who stare at you like you're their Yule miracle?"

 

Then, with a dismissive flick of her fingers, she steps back. The man steps forward again, shutting the door in Dean’s face. The bolt slides back into place against the sound of muffled laughter within. 

 

Dean stands there for a moment. His stomach twists—not from jealousy, but from something heavier, something tired and familiar. He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair.

 

So that’s that. No money tonight.

 

He should be worried. He is worried. He’s running out of time, out of options. But as he turns away, a tired voice inside him wonders— what if?

 

What if, just for one night, he didn’t have to sell himself? Didn’t have to perform? Didn’t have to put on a show?

 

What if, for once, he spent the night with someone he actually wanted to be with?

 

Dean looks down the dim corridor, past the flickering torches, past the guest quarters to a door on the left . A sliver of firelight glows beneath the threshold.

 

He could knock.

 

Not to ask for anything—not like that. Just to be there , to sit in front of the fire with a cup of ale, like that first night in the chapel. No expectations. No transactions. Just warmth. Just quiet. Just— Cas .

 

The thought lodges itself in his chest, bittersweet and aching.

 

But he hesitates.

 

What if Castiel doesn’t answer? What if he does? What if Castiel heard his exchange with Amara in the hall? She was hardly quiet about it. What if Castiel knows why Dean came here and is already disgusted with him?

 

His fingers twitch at his side. He swallows, glancing once more at the warm glow from beneath the door.

 

And then, with a sharp exhale, he turns on his heel and walks away, because this isn’t a world where he gets to have things just because he wants them.

 

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Dean makes his way back down the dim corridor. He rolls his shoulders, setting them square, and smooths a hand down the front of his tunic. 

 

The Great Hall is quieter now. Andy and Mick have packed up for the night, but a few knights remain, nursing their cups, voices low and lazy with drink. 

 

Dean heads for the nearest jug, pouring himself a drink with practiced ease. The ale is lukewarm, bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t grimace. He lets it settle in his gut, lets it anchor him back into his body, into the moment, into the role he has to play.

 

He steps closer to the fire, letting the heat lick at the front of his clothes, warming his skin. Slowly, deliberately, he leans against the great stone hearth, tilting his cup just enough that his wrist catches the glow of the firelight. He shifts his weight, letting his stance fall into something easy, something open , something meant to be noticed.

 

He knows what he looks like here, in this light—he’s spent enough time practicing, though Crowley’s told him he needn’t. ‘A natural,’ he says. 

 

The flicker of flames glosses over the faint sheen of sweat at his throat, over the sharp line of his jaw as he angles it just so. His lashes dip, half-lidded, inviting whoever passes by without trying. Not too eager. Not too guarded.

 

Soon enough, someone will take notice. A knight looking for a moment’s distraction. A lord deep enough in his cups to spend a little coin without regret. He’s been told many times how ‘pretty’ he is by widowed men —how much he reminds them of someone they lost, or someone they never dared to take. Some maiden or swain from their youth.

 

He leans a hand on the mantle, rolling his neck as if working out the stiffness of the day. He shifts his stance, lets his hips sway.

 

It’s a pose, yes. A hunt in its own right. He’s both the predator and the prey. 

 

And when Dean snares his quarry, he will go —because Sammy’s lungs are still weak. And winter is still long. And they have miles to go once Yule is done.

 

So Dean stays by the fire, the cup loose in his hand, waiting to be wanted.

 

Like always.

***

The cup is still loose in his grip, his other hand resting easy against the stone of the hearth, and sure enough— there it is. 

 

A low chuckle. A shift in the air.

 

Dean turns his head, schooling his features into something pleasant, something just shy of teasing.

 

“My lord,” he murmurs, giving the man a once-over. Older, well-dressed and firmly built, but pallid skin and a hollowness to the eyes. 

 

“Enjoying the warmth, are you?” the man muses, taking a slow sip from his cup.

 

Dean’s gaze flickers, just for a moment, to the heavy signet ring glinting on the man’s finger, the gold stitching at the cuffs of his tunic—subtle but expensive. The bulge of a weighted coin purse at his hip. Comfort. Security. For Sam. At least for a little while. Not Dean’s type by a long shot, but that hardly matters. 

 

Dean tilts his head, a little coquettish, letting his mouth curve into something easy, inviting. “Not nearly as much as I’d enjoy the company.”

 

The man chuckles again, deeper this time, indulgent. His fingers toy with the lip of his cup. “Oh, I do like a boy with manners.”

 

Dean’s stomach turns, but he lifts his cup in a silent toast, his own smile unwavering. The taste of ale turns sour in his mouth, but he welcomes its dulling effects.

 

Still, the man seems kind enough, and at his advanced age, Dean figures one brief go at it and he’ll be snoring before the embers in the hearth have cooled. 

 

He can do this.

 

Dean lets his smile curve a little wider, tilting his chin just enough to make it look effortless. “Manners? I was hoping you’d like me for my….. charm.” His voice is low, teasing, inviting the man to elaborate—to show his hand.

 

A surprised laugh bursts forth from the man. “Oh, you are quite well practiced, aren’t you?” His eyes drift over Dean, pleased. “You caught my eye at the wrestling match.” The man swirls the ale in his cup, watching Dean over the rim. “But you seemed… otherwise engaged. Glad to see that’s changed,” His smile widens, slow and knowing.  “I do enjoy a boy with spirit — and I do like to be generous, for those who please me.”

 

Dean’s neck prickles, and his smile nearly falters. Dean wants to spit the man’s insinuation in his face and run to Cas – lose himself in Cas’ presence and pretend he’s something different. Something pure.

 

But he holds his smile. 

 

Because the very idea is ridiculous. Because this man knows what he is, and so does Dean - and because Sammy’s lungs are still weak. Because winter is long, and miles and miles still lie ahead. 

 

Dean doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t let himself. He’s a professional, after all.

 

Instead, he lets the smile linger, smooth and practiced, and offers his hand. “I’ve seen you with Lord Charles but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says. “I’m Dean.”

 

The man rakes his teeth across his bottom lip, sizing Dean up just long enough to make it feel like a game, and then takes his hand.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Dean,” the man says with a slow, satisfied smile—

 “I’m Lord Alastair.” 

 

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Notes:

I'm sorry, reader! But most of all --I'm so sorry, Dean! 😭

Let me know what you think! I can take it!

Also - thank you for all the kudos and encouraging comments! They mean the world to me!

Chapter 15: The Sixth Day of Christmas - Part I - Matches

Notes:

I'd like to give a huge thank you once again to my Betas Sarah and Lexi and also to Ryan_A for showing me how to make translations hover. Now when you see words in a language other than English you can hover over them with a cursor rather than scroll to the end. Translations will still be in end notes for those reading on phones.

Thank you to everyone who has responded positively to this fic and let me know your thoughts! Your comments are part of what keeps me going! ❤️

TW - Just FYI - Dean is bruised and has evidence of abuse. Nothing is discussed in this chapter about his time with Alastair.

 

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December 30th 1196- The Sixth day of Christmas

 

Castiel wakes for what must be the fourth or fifth time. The nightmare is always the same — his mother, lying feverish in her bed. Unable to rest. Unable to draw enough air.

 

The sweating sickness.

 

The one that took her from him. The one that changed everything about his life.

 

Logically he knows this isn’t the same thing. Dean said his brother has struggled with this for a long time — but until now, Castiel hadn’t realized the impact, the toll it must take on Dean, the constant worry, the constant pretending that everything will be fine. The fear that the next journey, the next job, the next cold could be the one that takes his brother from him.

 

Castiel thinks again of his own brother, Gabriel. His anger toward him for abandoning his children to their grandparents abated somewhat by his recent recognition of just how fragile life is — that even his strong, sarcastic, joyful and unserious older brother could be brought low by it.

 

The fire has reduced itself to embers and the candle he’d lit last night to help mark the time has burned down completely. The white rose on his bedside table glows pale in the faint light that filters in from small cracks in the shutters, confirming it must at least be near dawn. Tired and fatigued though he is, there’s no use fighting with sleep. His anxious thoughts won’t let him win that battle. 

 

A prayer curls at the edge of his tongue, like the awakening of something buried deep, long forgotten. 

 

Æthelthryth, guide me.

 

His breath catches. He hasn’t thought of those words in years. The words his mother spoke each morning as, with Castiel’s small hand in hers, they rose from morning prayers. The words she taught him to pray in times of tribulation. A ritual as familiar as breath. Æthelthryth, a Saxon saint, beloved by his mother, though long out of favor with the Norman priests. 

 

But Castiel understood little of tribulation back then. Anael had made sure of that. Only now does he understand that his happy, almost blissful childhood was one owing to her protection. As a young boy, he’d idolized his father, always anxious to be in his presence, and his father was ever smiling when he was near. So different from Lord Charles’ regard for him now.

 

For years Castiel assumed his own sin was to blame for his father’s silence— his lack of response to Castiel’s letters. That the moral failings revealed that day he and Inias were discovered had been what turned Lord Charles’ regard to stone.

 

But now, as he thinks on his childhood, another possibility emerges— perhaps his father had always been thus. Perhaps it was only Anael’s love that had ever made him believe otherwise, shielding him from an indifferent father — just as she had shielded him for as long as she could from the full weight of the word ‘bastard.’ 

 

Was his memory of the doting father an illusion of Anael’s making? One meant to protect him from his father’s moods, his selfishness, his stormy disposition? 

 

He thinks of the days of his youth, spent mostly with his mother and his half brother. 

 

‘Your father is very busy with important matters, Castiel. We must not disturb him. Come with me and learn the lore of herbs and flowers used for healing. Then we’ll distribute some of the tinctures to Lowfield and Barrowdell for those who’ve fallen ill. Later Gabriel will work with you on your letters —for one day you will be a man of consequence too, and you’ll understand it’s not enough to order the people. You must care for them to truly lead them.’

 

On present reflection it was Gadreel and Gabriel, who most gave him guidance. Mildred and his mother to whom he owed his comfort. Had he built the father he needed in memory, rather than remembering the one who truly was?

 

He swallows. His hands tighten into the blankets. The fire shifts, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. It should feel foolish to say it now, after all this time. After everything. But it doesn’t. 

 

Gabriel has lost his way, and people who’ve become important to Castiel need care, yet how can he help any of them if at any time Brother Robert — Bobby could decide it is time for him to exile himself once again, this time permanently — in the cloister?

 

There’s nothing for it. He’ll get no more rest tonight. In frustration he shoves back the covers and rises, shivering in the cold morning air. 

 

If ever he needed guidance, if ever direction, he needs it now.

 

"Æthelthryth, guide me." This time, he does not think it, he speaks it aloud, willing the saint to hear.

 

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Castiel raps loudly on his brother’s door. He’s in the family wing of the manor now, one door down from where the unnamed knight, -–Michael’s acquaintance, has usurped his childhood bedroom. He secretly hopes he’ll wake him too.

 

He raps again on the sturdy oak door, five times.

 

“Go away!” he hears grumbled from within.

 

“Gabriel! Let me in!” he demands, knocking again — then again. “Gabriel!”

 

A door opens behind him, “What in God’s name is going on!” Michael yells.

 

Castiel turns, his eyes narrowing mirthlessly on his eldest brother, “I’m making a spectacle of myself. What else?” he jeers, remembering their last exchange. Just then, the door in front of him opens.

 

“Come in, Goddammit!” Gabriel growls, pulling his sleeve until Castiel pushes past him, sweeping into the room.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, baby brother?” Gabriel asks tiredly. His hands rake over his face, rubbing hard into his eyes. He plops down, looking exhausted on his bed. 

 

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Gabriel,” Castiel paces near the hearth. “But it’s far from pleasure I feel, knowing you’re abandoning your children and—”

 

“How dare you!”

 

“And their patrimony,” Castiel finishes, ignoring Gabriel’s outrage, “making some wild pilgrimage over hill and sea in pursuit of drink so that you can punish yourself for your supposed failings.”

 

“My sins, you mean.”

 

“You think you’re the only one who has them? The only one who’s lost someone? I’ve spent years telling myself my sin must have been the reason our mother was taken by God! Years thinking the friend, dearest to my heart had been ruined because of the nature of my desires – but yesterday I found out—”

 

Castiel falters, blinking.

 

Gabriel watches him, stone faced.

 

He swallows, “Yesterday I found out Inias is alive, and well, and happy. And all these years it was father — not some curse from God –just father who kept me from knowing that peace. And I—” he looks down, suddenly unsure of his words.

 

“What, Castiel?” Gabriel demands flatly, his arms crossed over his chest.

 

“I realize,” he looks up, catching his brother’s hardened gaze, “just now actually — maybe —I… I realize that maybe our mother’s death wasn't God’s wrath upon me either.” His eyes are wet. It’s only the smoke of the fire. 

 

Gabriel’s eyes widen, he rises, striding to meet Castiel, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him to face him. “You thought Anael’s death was your fault?”

 

Castiel just swallows, shifting his gaze away. 

 

“Jesus Christ!” Gabriel grabs his cheek, forcing him to look at him. “Look at me!” he chastises. “You are not to blame! It was the dearth of the season that brought the sweating sickness. Nothing more.”

 

“Then how can it not be so for you, brother?” Castiel protests. “I heard your ramblings when you were drunk. You think the blood you shed in war brought this upon your family! But if I am to stop blaming myself for my mother’s death then you are to stop blaming yourself for Rachel’s and Alain’s deaths!”

 

Gabriel’s mouth presses into a thin line. His arms cross over his chest, shoulders stiff. When he speaks, his eyes are dark, his voice – a warning.

 

"It’s different. You don’t know what a curse it is to lose a child."

 

Castiel’s brow knits. His eyes fill with pity. No — that is a suffering all too common, yet one Castiel cannot speak to — one he has not endured. He could never pretend to know Gabriel’s grief, but he knows this, Gabriel’s boys still need their father.

 

“No, Gabriel. I don’t know that sorrow,” he acknowledges softly. “I only know what it’s like to be a child. Losing my mother. Rejected by my father. Believing it all must have been my fault. You’re not the only one who lost in this, Gabriel. You have two boys, who’ve lost their mother, and brother. They need you.”

 

Gabriel turns, snapping angry eyes to Castiel, but Castiel doesn’t waver. Instead, he strides toward Gabriel as he speaks. 

 

“You stood up in front of that whole hall and raised your cup to me—not to celebrate, but to challenge me. In veiled words, you dared me not to just lie down and accept exile, not to be complacent about my fate. Well, congratulations. I heard you. I'm not going to go quietly but not in the way you may have meant. I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch you give up everything. You think I don’t see through it? This cloak of easy charm and mirth you hide yourself with? You’re throwing away your future, your land, your sons—everything Rachel wanted for you. If you meant what you said to me in that hall, then prove it. Get up. Take your own advice.”

 

“Turning it on me now, are you? Still afraid to seek your own redemption?”

 

Castiel scoffs, “My redemption?”

 

“Your happiness,” Gabriel shakes his head. “All that public spectacle and you’ve missed the damn point. You can leave now, brother!” he growls, his eyes suddenly dangerous. “It’s been lovely catching up with you.”

 

But Castiel’s not finished. Gabriel’s self-pity is affecting others now.

 

“Dean and the others had to pick up your slack yesterday,” he accuses suddenly.

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing,” Castiel warns, “but don’t insert yourself into their livelihood and then decide to get so wine-soaked, you piss vinegar! You left them scrambling. They live hand to mouth, Gabriel! They don’t get to charm their way into another lord’s hall like you do when the wine runs out and the winter turns bitter!"

 

“Boy, he really has the blood flowing straight to your cock, hasn’t he?” Gabriel sneers.

Castiel glares, “What?” 

Gabriel huffs a laugh, “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much brother. That pretty little green-eyed song bird of yours knows a thing or two about how to charm his way into a warm hall and a warm bed.” 

Castiel’s fist crashes into his brother's jaw and Gabriel staggers back a step, blinking in stunned silence.

He stares at his hand, breath hitching—his knuckles ache, but no more than Gabriel’s vile discourtesy of Dean. 

Gabriel lifts a hand to his jaw, flexing it once, then twice. For a moment, it looks like he might hit Castiel back. Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and shakes his head.

 

"Well," he mutters, rubbing his jaw, "that certainly answers that question, doesn’t it? Tell me, that wolf inside you—how long have you been keeping it caged, baby brother? Does this mean you’re finally ready to let it out?"

 

Castiel glares, chest heaving. His blood pounds in his ears, his knuckles still aching from the blow. He wants to demand Gabriel apologize for maligning Dean that way, but the growing smirk on Gabriel’s face tells him that’s exactly the kind of chivalrous gesture he expects from a fool like him. 

 

Gabriel’s eyes show a grim satisfaction. “Love’s a fire, and that boy’s the kind that burns everything in its path. Play that game long enough, and someone always gets burned.  Be careful it’s not you.”

 

For a second, Castiel considers saying something—some final, damning remark. Instead, he turns on his heel and storms toward the door.

 

He reaches it and swings open the great oak door. Hand braced against the frame, he pauses, looking back.

"There’s more than one De Devin playing with fire, Gabriel. Be careful you don’t burn her too."

 

Gabriel’s smirk falters. Just for a second.

 

It's enough for Castiel to know the blow landed.

 

He storms out, boots hammering the stone of the corridor, and doesn’t look back.

 

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Castiel passes his father’s chambers and pauses at the door. Servants brush past —one with fresh linens, another with a flagon of wine. A third kneels by the hearth, adding another log to the fire.

 

Through the open door, he sees his father sitting before the flames, his feet soaking in a basin of steaming water. His back is turned, and for a moment, Castiel sees not the man who’s dismissed and scorned him these past days, but someone small, diminished.

 

Now, he doesn’t even know what he feels. 

 

Anger, certainly. The kind that boils low, steady, and dangerous. But beneath it, a childish, aching wish that the hands that greeted him just days ago, frail but warm, enveloping his own in welcome, were the hands of a father who’d been horribly maligned…misunderstood. If only he was wrong about Lord Charles, he’d not be questioning every memory of his childhood. He’d be certain of his father’s receptivity to the plea he was about to bring before him.

 

But the joy he’d felt upon seeing Inias well and happy made him realize how long he’d felt the burden of fear and guilt. A burden his father could have easily lifted years ago. 

 

A bitter taste rises in his throat. He thinks now of Lowfield, of the people who shared their meager drink with him, huddled against the cold, waiting. 

 

“Excuse me, Master Castiel,” Lord Charles’ scribe begs, nodding as he brushes past him through the threshold, hurrying to the small writing desk in the corner where his father’s ledger sits.

 

Castiel steps inside as well.

 

“Father?”

 

Charles looks up, beckons with his hand, and grunts a greeting in the manner of one fighting morning fatigue. Castiel crosses to the hearth. Lord Charles rises with jerking pain-riddled movements. Castiel steps forward to help him back toward the bed, but Michael arrives and takes Charles’ arm in his grip, guiding him back to the canopy bed. 

 

“Castiel,” Michael grumbles with a nod, “What happened? Did you run out of people to harry from their beds at the crack of dawn?”

 

“Good morning to you too, brother,” he responds. He waits until Michael has settled Lord Charles, upright in the bed. “I’ve come to make father aware of a grave sight I passed last evening on the way back from—”

 

He falters. Does his father even realize Inias is in Dunwick? What would he do if he knew Castiel had found him there?

 

“Castiel?” Charles says expectantly. “Sometime before Vespers if you please. Back from where?”

 

“Back from the ride,” he answers smoothly. “We cut through the forest and then took the path to Lowfield. The people there are very poorly. One young girl so thin and frail….it was unnatural, Sir.”

 

“Did we not give out fruit and bread on St. Stephen’s?” Charles asks, canting his head slightly toward Michael, without looking back.

 

“There were children come soulin’ from some of the villages as is tradition,” Michael confirms. “They were given apples and bread to take on their way.”

 

“But these people are sorely in want,” Castiel argues. “They’ve need of a store of apples, flour perhaps. Some nuts and even some ale would at least give them sustenance.”

 

A soft knock sounds at the door. Batholomew steps inside, bowing.

 

“My lord, Master Zachariah.”

 

Charles straightens slightly, nodding.

 

“Ah. Zachariah.”

 

“Charles,” Zachariah nods from the doorway.

 

“Sit,” Lord Charles motions to an upholstered chair. “I’ll be just a moment.”

 

Zachariah enters and takes a seat on the chair near the hearth. His expression is one of idle amusement as he watches what must look to an outsider like a standoff. Castiel, not wishing to be the source of his amusement, relaxes his stance. 

 

“Lowfield…” Charles murmurs, turning his sharp gaze back on Castiel. “Stuart.”

 

“Yes, my lord?” The scribe looks up from his papers and work. 

 

“How did Lowfield fare in the assizes?”

 

The scribe tucks his quill back into its holder and reaches for the ledger. He thumbs through a moment, lips moving softly over the words as he reads. The crackle of parchment fills the brief silence before he looks up.

 

“Lowfield’s barley yield was short this last season, my lord. The planting started late on account of the prolonged frost. Rains spoiled a portion of the harvest, and blight took the rest. They made up some in peas and beans, but not enough to meet their dues in full.”

 

Charles frowns. “And what of their sheep?”

 

Stuart clears his throat. “Flocks were thinned, my lord. Eleven sucklings lost when the snows lingered last spring. It seems they petitioned for some leeway in their tithe—”

 

Charles waves a hand. “And was it granted?”

 

The scribe glances down. “No, my lord. Their levy was collected in full.”

 

“Of course,” Lord Charles huffs. “The good priests always get their due.”

 

Castiel feels a coil of frustration tighten in his chest. “If their harvest was poor and they’ve lost stock, how were they expected to meet the levy?” Castiel presses.

 

Stuart hesitates. “They made up the difference in coin, my lord. They sold goods at market—”

 

“What goods?” Castiel snaps. “If their crops failed and their flocks suffered, what was left?”

 

A flicker of discomfort crosses Stuart’s face. He shifts slightly before answering.

 

“They… sold what they could, my lord. I believe some turned to their own stores, some to labor. A few of the freemen left the village altogether, seeking wages elsewhere. It’s all in the reeve’s testament. Shall I read it, my lord?”

 

“No,” Charles exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “All of that and yet they are still short of the levy? Clearly they’ve mismanaged things.”

 

Castiel clenches his jaw. “They paid what they owed at the expense of their own bellies.”

 

Michael finally speaks. “It would seem so.”

 

“A village falls short of the levy, having failed to set aside extra in the event of foul weather –surely you’re not suggesting your father reward their lack of frugality by sending additional food?” Zachariah eyes Castiel smugly, before turning to Charles with a smirk. “Why, we might as well don our straw hats and yoke up our hunting dogs. The boy will have us plowing their fields next.”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Castiel snaps– the flush of frustration on his cheeks.

 

“Lord Zachariah is right,” Charles agrees. “They ought to have planned their plantings better. Perhaps their current state will serve as a lesson to them to do better in the coming year.” 

 

There’s the sound of a throat being cleared. Castiel’s eyes snap to Michael. 

 

“My Lord, if things are as Castiel says, it could be a greater detriment to the future harvests in the eastern holdings,” Michael argues. 

 

Charles tilts his head slightly but does not look at him. He lifts his goblet, swirling the wine absently.

 

“How so?” he asks at last.

 

“A dead man cannot till the earth. If the freemen have indeed moved on, we can’t afford to lose any more hands.” 

 

Castiel eyes him sharply, surprised. Michael is careful, deliberate. It’s not an argument. It is a suggestion, carefully placed so that Charles might listen.

 

Charles exhales, setting down his goblet with a faint clink.

 

“Fine,” he says. “I will send a steward to assess the situation after Yule.”

 

“After Yule?” Castiel’s voice rises in disbelief. “That’s weeks away! Some of them won’t last that long.”

 

Charles scoffs. “Then they should have thought of that before mismanaging their stores.”

 

“They didn’t mismanage them!” Castiel bites back, raising his voice in frustration. “They were forced to sell them to pay you.”

 

Michael tenses beside him. Stuart flicks a wary glance between father and son. Zachariah, who had been adjusting his cuff, stills slightly—his gaze sharpening with interest.

 

“By God! Castiel!” Charles erupts. He shakes his head, a sneer curling his lip. “You are your hedge-born mother’s whelp!”

 

Zachariah shifts slightly in his chair, giving Charles the barest flick of a side-eyed glance.

 

"Saxon to the bone—and just as truculent," Zachariah mutters, with a shake of his head, as if Castiel is some wild ignoble thing.

 

Michael stands beside their father, fists clenched, white to the knuckle. His chin is lifted, jaw set. He stares at some distant point in the room, rigid with anger.

 

Castiel exhales sharply and looks away.

 

Of course Michael would side with their father. He always did. It shouldn’t hurt anymore. But it does.

 

Lord Charles may be weak in body but his eyes burn with threat nonetheless.

 

“Now, you will be satisfied! Or I might have a mind to raze the whole village to the ground just for your insolence!”

 

There is a silence. Heavy and loaded.

 

For a moment, Castiel thinks he dare not breathe. 

 

“Forgive me,” he sighs, desperate, fearing he’s gone too far. He knows better than to press further. And yet—

 

“I— They are starving,” he whispers.

 

Zachariah makes a small sound—something between amusement and curiosity. Castiel resists the urge to snap at him.

 

Charles gives a small, dismissive wave. “Yes, and hunger is the goad of productivity. Is that not so Zachariah?” 

 

A smirk twitches at the corner of Zachariah’s mouth, “I’ve always thought as much.”

 

“The season of Yule is over soon,” Lord Charles decides. “Let them feel the sharp sting of hunger for a bit. It’s the only lesson the peasant understands.”

 

A quiet rage curls in Castiel’s gut, hot and unrelenting. He barely registers the smug tilt of Zachariah’s mouth, the idle amusement in his gaze. 

 

His father has spoken.

 

The conversation is over.

 

Castiel forces his hands to unclench. Forces himself to bow stiffly. 

 

"As you say, my lord."

 

His boots strike hard against the stone floor as he turns, measured, controlled. The air in the chamber is thick with heat from the hearth, but the moment he steps into the corridor, it is cold. Too cold. Castiel does not look back.

 

He swallows against the tightness in his throat, shoulders squared.

 

Truculent, is he? His mother’s whelp?

 

He lifts his chin. 

 

Let them call him that, he thinks as he strides toward the Great Hall. 

 

He is Anael’s son! Of that, he’ll never be ashamed. 

 

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Castiel finds himself staring into the Yule fire. The great tree’s limbs have been completely eaten away by the slow, steady burn of the flames, and he wonders as glowing embers eat into the layers of the thick trunk if it will last for all of Yule. A knot twists his stomach when he remembers he might not even be here at the end of Yule – Brother Ro— Bobby, having mentioned leaving after a few days rest. If he had any sense he would pack up and beg to leave this place now, but then he thinks about never seeing Jo again, never seeing Samandriel, Harry and Ed, as ridiculous as they are, of never seeing Gadreel — of never seeing Dean.

 

The servants are putting out the first kettle of porridge, but the hall is nearly deserted except for a drunkard or two that never made it back to their rooms the previous night. One snores loudly, laying on the trestle table like a goose dinner, the other is slumped in a corner. 

 

The manor is slowly waking up and soon guests and family will be making their way down to the hall to break their fasts and enjoy the various entertainments of the day. But Castiel can’t stomach the thought of more revels — not now when he’s tormented over his brother’s determination to give up everything he sacrificed for. How can he laugh and dance to the songs of the troupe when he knows the harsh reality of their lives?

 

He can’t stay here. He’s restless. What’s the point in revels if the people you care about are suffering?

 

Castiel exhales sharply and turns from the fireplace. He needs air. He needs to be away from the warmth of the hall, from the scent of boiling oats and the murmurs of the waking household.

 

Outside, the cold pricks his skin like needles. Good. It sharpens him—clears the fog of frustration in his head. He pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders and strides toward the barn, the familiar scent of fresh hay and horse filling his lungs before he even reaches the doors.

 

Maybe tending to Gwenny will settle him. Maybe the quiet of the barn will give him the space to think. He waves and smiles to Gadreel, who is on his way to the goat barn to feed the horses in the overflow stalls. The main stable is quiet.

 

But as he turns down the aisle toward Gwenhwyfar’s stall, the rhythmic swish of a curry comb cuts through the barn’s quiet. He isn’t alone.

 

He tenses, approaching slowly. Whoever it is, they’re in Gwenhwyfar’s stall. Gwenny nickers. The sound of the curry comb stops.

 

“Who’s there?” he demands.

 

There’s a beat of silence where tension thickens in the air.

 

“It’s just me, Cas,” Dean answers. “Relax,” he laughs hoarsely. “I’m not stealing her.”

 

“I didn’t think you would!” he rushes to say, hoping it sounds sincere—because it is. Perhaps once… perhaps days before, but that was… well before. Before a lot of things.

 

Dean stands in the front corner of the small stall, one hand on Gwenhwyfar’s neck, the other stroking her nose. Gwenny’s hindquarters are toward the aisle where Castiel stands with his hand on the gate.

 

“Forgive me—I mean, I don’t mind, but… why are you here, Dean?”

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, his hand stilling on Gwenny’s neck. And it sounds true. Dean sounds subdued.

 

“Are you alright?” Castiel can’t help but ask.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says easily. “Just got up to check on Loki. Not that I didn’t trust you. Just that—well, you took care of him for me last night so I could get to Sam, but figured I’d pay him a visit.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Horses are just good, you know? Even the cheeky ones, like Loki. They just want to be treated right, and they’ll carry you anywhere. Always liked horses,” he muses. “I brushed him out this morning, then came back here. I know how much you like riding, so figured I’d make sure your Gwenny was good and ready after her shoeing.”

 

Castiel smiles at Dean’s thoughtfulness. “You said your father was a farrier,” he remarks. “You were learning the trade?”

 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Know some smithing too. My father had a small forge for making shoes, bits, spurs, stirrups—just about all of it. Even made some protective armor—you name it. Plow-worn land or field of battle, if it had to do with horses, my father could make it. Taught me to make my first knife when I was seven. Thick as a plowshare and only good for stabbing at my supper, but he was so proud that I’d done it by myself with no help,” Dean laughs, and even in the shadows of the dim morning light, Castiel can see the smile that curves his lips. “Hung that ugly hunk of metal on the wall of his forge. Said someday he’d hang my proving piece right next to it, so I’d always remember that who we are right now is never the same as who we can one day be.”

 

Dean’s smile slips. “Guess he proved that in the end, though not in the way he’d want.”

 

Castiel opens his mouth, unsure whether to ask, but Dean looks up with another shrug. “In any case, could’ve shoed her for you myself if I’d had the tools, but your blacksmith did a good job. I checked. Good even weight—won’t throw her gait. Nice fit at the quarters—won’t press on the walls or sole.” He bends down and lifts Gwenny’s front right hoof. “Balanced, clean fullering—should hold steady.” He releases her hoof and straightens.

 

“I didn’t realize there was so much to it,” Castiel admits.

 

“You’d be surprised how many horses go lame because their owners went to the wrong farrier or smith.”

 

Castiel listens waiting for more, but the silence stretches.

 

“Sam’s feeling better? I hope?” Even as he asks he knows the answer. Dean would never leave him if he wasn’t, but then Castiel has never been good at small talk. 

 

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Thanks to Bobby, and Rowena, and you, that is.”

 

Castiel huffs a breath and smiles, “I didn’t do anything — I just followed Brother Robert’s instructions.”

 

“And brought us food, and brought Loki back here for me,” Dean shrugs. “It’s not nothin, Cas. It was important to me.”

 

It could be the fatigue, or the aftermath of his worry over Sam’s health, but something’s different. He can’t put his finger on it but something’s— off.  Castiel takes a step toward the gate, his hand on the latch to open it and there it is again – that feeling. The way when Castiel steps right, Dean moves left. The way he hasn’t come over to Castiel, flashing that easy smile of his. The way no matter which way Castiel moves, Gwenhwyfar always ends up between them.

 

“Dean…” he opens the stall gate, stepping inside. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, Cas,” he says easily, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. 

 

Dean’s mirroring his moves again, exiting as Castiel enters, the horse between them. Castiel steps forward again, then back quickly enough to come face to face with Dean.

 

That’s when he sees it. What he couldn't see in the shadows. 

 

The bruised cheek, the swell just above Dean’s eye. The broken lip.

 

“Who did this to you?” His voice is a cracked husk, angry and urgent.

 

“Nobody, Cas.”

 

“Was it Uriel?”

 

Dean huffs, annoyed.  “I did it to myself, alright?”

 

Castiel’s brow furrows, “Dean!”

 

“Look, I fell! Slipped on some ice on the manor steps that’s all!” he tries to play it off with a chuckle. “You think this is bad? You know how many bruises I got learning how to tumble like a proper jongleur? This is nothing, Cas. Takes a lot of work to land on your arse like a professional," he quips. "Just part of the trade. That’s all.”

 

“If you’re such a good tumbler then how did you end up getting banged up on the steps anyway?” Castiel seethes. Dean’s lying. He can feel it. Perhaps his brother was right. There’s a fierceness quickening inside him—a wolf baring its teeth— and when Castiel finds out who hurt him—

 

“Leave it, Cas!” Dean says, his eyes hard, threatening. “Don’t look for trouble where trouble ain’t.”

 

Gwenhwyfar neighs as Dean pushes past him, out of the stall, striding fast out of the stables.

 

The weight of it freezes him, then his brain catches up and Castiel hurries out, quickly closing the stall gate before following on his heels.

 

“Dean, wait!” Castiel calls, jogging to catch him. “Dean, I’m sorry. I’m— Dean I’ll mind my own business. Just– Dean will you just stop for a second?”

 

Dean stops abruptly and turns, but Castiel can’t slow his momentum in time. He slams into Dean with full force.  Knocking him backwards onto the cold hard stone of the courtyard.

Dean curls his body, keeping his head from cracking against the stone but Castiel tumbles after him, his hip hitting the stone and landing the full weight of the rest of him on Dean’s chest!

 

‘Oof!’ Dean breathes.

 

Castiel lays stunned a moment, then raises his head to see Dean’s mouth open — wide eyes staring up at the sky as he struggles to suck in the breath Castiel just knocked out of him. 

 

“Oh God!” Castiel scrambles to get off of Dean.

 

“Sorry!” 

 

“Jesus, Cas! OW!” 

 

“Oh, Merde!Shit!  Dean, I’m sorry!”

 

“Get your knee off my stomach!”

 

“I’m trying!”

 

“Ooohph!”

 

Dean is still on his back. Castiel kneels next to him. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Dean closes his eyes, and shakes his head back and forth. Castiel searches for any signs of new injury, eyes moving frantically over Dean and suddenly the young man is shaking.

 

“Dean!” Castiel leans over, grabbing his shoulder.

 

Dean opens his eyes, there are tears welling there and he’s sucking in little breaths.

 

Castiel is worried, desperately confused, but then Dean lets out a peal of laughter, loud enough to turn the head of the guard on duty. 

 

"Christ in Heaven, Cas! If King Richard had taken you to Acre, he wouldn’t have needed siege engines—you’d have barreled over the gates on the first try!"

 

Castiel snorts in surprise, which makes Dean howl in return. His chest shakes with laughter—he doesn’t even know why, but he can’t stop. And every time one of them gets themselves under control, one look from the other and it’s bursting out of them again.

 

Finally, they catch their breath. 

 

“So, you’re sturdy as the gates of Acre, ey?” Castiel teases as he stands, a hand extended. Dean takes it and allows Castiel to pull him up. 

 

“Stalwart!” Dean nods confidently.

 

“And I don’t suppose you bend or break for any man, then?”

 

“Not for all the knights of Outremer!” Dean grins. 

 

Castiel has him now— the thing that’s been needling him. His eyes are hawkish on Dean’s.

 

“Then why did you throw that match?” 

 

There’s a moment when the words settle, then Dean’s brows lift, “I didn’t—”

 

He stops himself, and lets out a long slow breath.

 

“I did,” he nods. “But it isn’t for the reason you think,” he adds quickly as Castiel’s expression sours. 

 

“I don’t need anyone’s pity, Dean! And I could have beaten you in a fair match!”

 

“See that’s what I mean Cas!” Dean huffs. “Maybe you could and maybe you couldn’t,” he shrugs, “but I didn’t exactly do it for you.”

 

His brow knits, “What do you mean? Who would you have done it for?”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, “For Jo, you ass! For me! And yeah, maybe a little bit for you too. People like Amara, they get everything they want. More than they need. I just— I didn’t want to be the instrument that took something nice from Jo, okay? And maybe you would have beat me fair, but why take that chance?”

 

Castiel flicks his gaze away, flexing his jaw. He wants to believe Dean has faith in his strength. Why it matters so much to him, he’d rather not explore at the moment.

 

“Hey,” Dean touches his shoulder, drawing his eyes back. “Here’s the truth of it, Cas. In that moment, I didn’t think of it as pitying you. I just wanted to be on your side. In that moment it felt good— like we were in this together. You know?”

 

And he does know, because something in Castiel’s chest tightens, and he has no words. Dean’s eyes are locked on his, sincere, soulful, and Castiel believes. 

 

He swallows around the stone in his throat, and nods, managing finally to rasp out a response. 

 

“We—um…we make a good team.”

 

Dean’s smile is like the sudden piercing of the sun through clouds.

 

“Yeah, we do.”

 

Some icy mud clings to Castiel’s cloak on his shoulder. He watches Dean’s face, the way his tongue peeks out to wet his lips while he works to brush the mud away. They’re rosy with cold and plump, the bottom one a little too plump, split on the right side. His cheek is mottled in blues, purples, and greens, his eye swollen above the brow.

 

Castiel won’t remark on it, because he knows it will upset Dean, but he will find out who did this, and he will make sure they pay. 

 

“There you go, my lord,” Dean smirks, “All ready to meet your fancy friends and break your fast.”

 

Castiel can’t help his broad smile, which Jo used to say was all teeth.

 

“Have you had anything?”

 

“Oh don’t worry about me,” Dean lifts his chin. “You wouldn’t believe the basket of food someone left for me and my brother last night.”

 

“Oh, really?”

 

“Yup!” Dean nods. “Must be an admirer.”

 

“Oh, you think so?” Castiel asks sagely, “They do say good taste is sorely lacking these days.”

 

“You wound me, Cas!” Dean shakes his head grasping his heart with both hands.

 

“All right,” Castiel grins, rolling his eyes.

 

Dean smirks, but then his expression shifts, the teasing edge softening. “You should head inside. Your fancy friends are waiting.”

 

Castiel hesitates. He doesn’t particularly want to go—not now when his body feels light with laughter, so different from the start of this day. Not when Dean is standing there, looking at him like that.

 

Dean, perhaps reading the hesitation, tilts his head toward the outbuilding. “I should check on Sammy, anyway.” Dean’s voice is casual, and Castiel’s eyes are again drawn to the bruising on his cheek, the cut at his lip — starker now against Dean’s fair beauty in the morning light. Once again he aches with the certainty that someone laid hands on him, and it’s too much to bear.

 

“Dean,” he starts, “Your injuries—”

 

“Leave it, Cas,” Dean sighs. 

 

Castiel presses his lips together, feeling that familiar fury coil tight inside him, the part of him that wants to demand the truth—to demand names. But he sees the weariness in Dean’s eyes, imploring him to let it go.

 

So he does. For now.

 

He nods. “Of course.”

 

He lingers a second longer before finally turning toward the manor.

 

Just as Castiel reaches the doors, Dean calls after him, voice laced with mischief.

 

“Oh, and Cas—”

Castiel turns back to Dean, walking backwards. Dean grins.

“Next time you put together a basket, toss in a slotted spoon for us, would you? I hear you’re the one to ask.”

 

Castiel exhales, shaking his head. “Cul d’âne.”Donkey's ass, aka 'assbutt'

 

Dean frowns. “What did you just call me?”

 

Castiel only smirks, turning, pushing open the kitchen door, and disappearing, leaving Dean unsatisfied. 

 

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Notes:

Merde! - Shit!

Cul d’âne. - Donkey's ass, or 'Assbutt' if you will! 😆

This day takes place over three chapters and is a pivotal day for Castiel.

Let me know what you think!

Chapter 16: The Sixth Day of Christmas - Part II - The Weight of Words

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who has commented! And to my wonderful Betas for helping make this and every chapter more readable! Several people have commented or made guesses about certain family dynamics. For that reason I am reposting the De Devin family timeline from a few chapters back in case it helps!

 

Castiel’s Family Timeline

 

1160: Lord Charles and Naomi are married.

1162: Michael is Born.

1163: Luke is born.

1169: Lady Naomi dies giving birth to Raphael. The child dies shortly after.

1170: Lord Charles remarries - the Lady Maryse of Lisieux (from Normandy).

1171: Gabriel is born.

1174: Gabriel’s mother dies. Her handmaiden, Lady Anael becomes central to Gabriel’s care.

1177: Castiel is born to Charles & Lady Anael. Michael (15) and Hester (17) marry. Luke (14) is sent into the priesthood.

1186: Gabriel (15) Castiel (9) - Gabriel marries Rachel. Late in that year, Gabriel’s first son is born.

1188: Gabriel’s second son is born. He goes on Crusade to gain a land grant from the Church near the Priory of St. Cuthbert's. Gabriel does not realize Rachel is pregnant with a third child.

1189: Gabriel’s third son is born while he is abroad.

1190: An illness sweeps through northern England claiming the lives of many including Gabriel’s wife and eldest son, and Castiel’s mother. Gabriel’s children go to live with their mother’s family.

1191: Lord Charles sends Castiel (14) to his sister’s household to be trained for knighthood.

1194: Gabriel (23) returns from the Crusade after 6 years and learns of the deaths of his wife and child. He begins 2 years of wandering through England and Normandy.

December 1196: Present Day. Lord Charles is dying of a wasting illness. Castiel (19) returns home for the Yule season as does Gabriel (25)

 

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The kitchen smells warm with spices. Servants bustle about with baking and preparing the meals for the day, and Castiel notices a sugar cone and nippers on a table near a mortar and pestle where it looks like someone has cut and pounded the rock-hard sugar to dust. Ezra is hauling in wood to keep the hearth fed. Jo is chopping vegetables, smiling over to where Mildred hovers around two blond children. They are sampling a baked confection. The younger one has his cheeks stuffed full to bulging and looks quite proud of himself, and Castiel can’t help but smile.

“You chew that slowly, Master Raphael. They’ll be no more til this evening or you’ll spoil your dinner and I’ll not be the subject of Lady Hester’s ire. And you Master Matthias! Don’t stuff your mouth so full! Now where is little mistress Hael!” Mildred turns, looking about the kitchen. “There you are!”

A small child, about three feet high, cradles the tiny orange kitten as she waddles toward the table where her brothers eat their morning snack.. She places it on the table and giggles as it mews and prances back toward her. The runt of the litter they’d worried about. Castiel is happy to see it growing stronger by the day. 

The older boy, Raphael, resembles his father with his blue eyes and short sandy blond hair. The younger one favors his mother’s fairer blond hair and features. The little girl, Hael, is dark of hair with full rosy cheeks and eyes like a clear blue lake. Castiel smiles as Raphael gets up to help his sister onto the bench, then breaks off some of his cake for her as the kitten patters between the children. Whatever his relationship with Michael, his children seem to care for one another. He wonders if life will change them. 

Watching the brothers with their sister makes him think again about Gabriel’s care and teasing as they grew— how happy he’d been to see him again, somehow assuming that Gabriel’s return would bring with it the carefree simplicity of his youth — before his brother ran off to marry and take up the cross — before his mother fell ill —before it all went wrong. Raphael’s care for Hael evokes Dean’s care for his brother. He wonders if anyone ever looked after Dean so well. Crowley and Rowena have taken the boys in, but as Castiel can attest, there’s a difference between housing someone and caring for someone. 

“And I suppose you’re hoping to get an advance taste too?” Mildred asks, arms crossed with a playful curve to her smile. It snaps Castiel out of his thoughts.

“Me?” he blinks, but Mildred is already handing him a piece of the cake like he’s one of the children. 

“You always poked your head in here as a child trying to charm a taste of some sweet or another,” she remembers fondly. “So tell me. What do you think?” Mildred crosses her arms.

Castiel bites into the still warm cake, eyes widening.

“Mmm!” 

He swallows and nods, “This is excellent. It tastes like your ginger cake but there’s something else.”

“I used some of the cloves and cinnamon, and instead of honey I sweetened it with sugar. This was a trial. So far the children approve. If it passes the test there will be more for the great hall tonight.”

“It more than passes, Mildred. They’re going to all want you for the head of their kitchens!”

“Now you’re just trying to charm me again like I said, but you only get one piece this morning,” she teases. 

Castiel greets Jo and the curious children. Raphael asks why he doesn’t sit at high table like Gabriel in the way that children have of cutting through the pretense of adults, and Castiel pays him the respect of an honest answer. 

“Lord Charles, your grandfather, is my father. But he and my mother were not married.”

“Was your mother the slut then?” 

Castiel’s brows rise, quite shocked as the others react.

“Matthias!” Raphael pushes his brother hard, as Mildred shrieks.

“Young man! I don’t care who your father is. I'll have none of that language in my kitchen or you’ll get a paddling with one of my spoons!”

Matthias, wide-eyed looks back and forth between all of them, the beginnings of tears welling at his eyes.

Castiel takes pity on him. It’s clear the words are not his own. He probably doesn’t even know what they mean. Matthias, on the verge of weeping at their reaction, squeaks out a defense.

“What? What did I say wrong? Momma said his mother was–”

“It’s a rude word!” Raphael interrupts harshly in the way of commanding big brothers. “And Papa told her not to say such things, so we should not say such things!”

Matthias, still confused, blinks at the welling tears. 

“It’s alright Matthias,” Castiel says gently. “I’m not angry. It's okay to be curious. Do you know what that word means?”

He shakes his head. 

 

Castiel kneels slightly so that he is on Matthias’s level, offering a calm and measured tone, mindful of the child's innocence.

 

“It’s a word that people sometimes use when they want to be unkind about a woman—especially when they think she hasn’t followed the rules they expect of her. But just because someone says something, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

 

Matthias sniffles and glances up at him, still uncertain. Castiel offers a reassuring smile.

 

“My mother was a good and kind woman, and she loved me very much. That is what matters, isn’t it?”

 

Matthias nods hesitantly, his little hands gripping the edge of the bench.

 

Raphael, emboldened by the moment, adds firmly, “Papa says rude words about ladies make a man small.”

 

Mildred nods approvingly at that, though her expression remains sharp with disapproval at what has been overheard in the household.

 

“I—” Matthias stammers, “I didn’t know it was rude.”

 

“I know,” Castiel says, smiling “and that’s why I’m not angry.” He ruffles the boy's hair playfully. 

 

Not at you anyway, he thinks.

 

Castiel straightens, his smile still in place, though inwardly, something twists. ‘Momma said.’ A quiet, venomous seed planted somewhere it didn’t belong. His eyes flick briefly to Jo, who has drawn a little tense, and then to Mildred, whose lips are pressed thin.

 

“Wise words from your father, Raphael,” Castiel says, his eyes flicking to the boy whose chin rises a fraction in pride at the acknowledgement. But Castiel is already thinking of Michael and Hester. Of what they say behind closed doors. Of what the children hear when they aren’t meant to be listening.

 

Just then, a loud thud on the wood of the table startles them, breaking the tension, as a large meowing Calico calmly picks her way gingerly across the cluttered table to retrieve her kitten. She bunts his head and pauses a moment to groom her baby with her tongue before picking him up by the scruff and carrying him off to nurse.

The children laugh along with Mildred and Jo, but something in Castiel’s heart clenches. His chest is inexplicably tight, wanting for breath. He forces himself to breathe, inhaling—exhaling, easing the tightness. He huffs a smile in Jo’s direction at her curious look, but his gaze drifts back to the kitten, now tucked safely against his mother’s side. It's ridiculous, he knows—just the tension of the last twenty four hours unwinding from him all at once in the levity of the moment — no doubt. That and the relief he feels knowing the little orange kitten is finding his place. That’s all. 

Jo puts the children to work, and Castiel too, preparing vegetables for a venison stew, the boys chopping and little Hael dumping the pieces into a bowl. Castiel smiles at the easy banter of the siblings, but all the while his thoughts bounce back and forth between his present company and his ongoing worries over both his brother and Dean.

When the carrots for a stew that must feed over forty people have been prepared, he politely excuses himself and makes for the great hall. 

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Castiel steps into the corridor and heads toward the Great Hall. He spots Samandriel ahead just about to enter and feels an unexpected but genuine warmth at the sight of him. Samandriel walks with his usual composed grace, his expression brightening when he catches Castiel’s eye.

“Castiel,” he greets. “I was wondering if I’d see you today.”

Castiel inclines his head with a small smile. “And I, you.”

“Will you join us for a drink?”

“That would be nice,” Castiel smiles, grateful for Samandriel’s and the others’ company.

Before they can say more, a pair of familiar voices cuts through the hall.

“Well, look who finally emerges,” Ed drawls as he and Harry wave them over, both carrying the satisfied slump of men who have already had more than a few sips of ale.

Harry snorts, elbowing Castiel in mock offense as he drops down to sit beside him. “We thought you’d abandoned us entirely, tucked away in your fine new quarters, too good for a meal with the rest of us.”

“I’m hardly too good for—”

“Right, right,” Ed cuts in with a wave of his hand, grinning. “We’re only saying, while we were out freezing our arses off, you were off having a grand time with the ladies.”

Harry groans dramatically, stretching his arms as if shaking off stiffness. “Michael had us out drilling. Drilling! Can you believe that? Yule revels are for feasting and drinking, not getting a welt on your leg from a wooden sword.”

“That was the point,” Samandriel interjects smoothly as they step into the great hall, where the lingering scent of spiced cider clings to the air. “It was meant to be a good-natured showing of skill, a reminder of our training in a festive spirit.”

“Festive spirit,” Ed scoffs, reaching for an ale. “Easy for you to say, standing off to the side, watching the rest of us get trounced.”

Samandriel lifts an elegant brow, utterly unimpressed. “Yes, because what this hall truly lacks is one more man swinging his wood wildly at all comers.”

There’s a horrified pause, before the table erupts.

Harry snorts. Ed’s mouth opens—then closes. And Castiel, halfway through a sip of ale, completely loses it.

He chokes, coughs, and nearly sprays his drink across the table, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he wipes his sleeve across his mouth. Ed slams his fist down as he howls, Harry is wheezing like a dying bellows.

Castiel, still gasping, clasps a hand on Samandriel’s shoulders declaring, “Samandriel of the Scathing Wit! God help us all!” He gestures weakly at him, still catching his breath. “He needs no sword!” he laughs. “He slays with words!”

“And yet,” Samandriel says with devastating smoothness, “I can assure you, when the need arises, I am prepared—with a sword of the most hardened steel and goodly length. I am simply more particular than some in whom I choose to stab with it.”

A knight from an adjacent table leans in, raising his cup, “Not since Excalibur has England known such a weapon, no doubt” he quips. 

Castiel is still shaking his head, smirking through his gasps for breath. “A blade so expertly endowed, the damsels swoon at the sight!”

Samandriel, without hesitation, affirms, "Ah, but only those who lack the skill to handle it."

Meg, a passing servant expertly balancing a tray of ale, snorts loud enough to cut through the noise.

She pauses just long enough to glance at them all, unimpressed.

“God’s wounds, men. You handle your own swords often enough—you should know by now they’re rarely as impressive as you claim.”

The table roars.

Ed howls, practically toppling over. Harry slaps the table, wheezing. The knight who joined in looks utterly scandalized—before laughing into his cup. Castiel’s sides are starting to hurt as once again he fights for breath. 

Even Samandriel, grins, inclining his head slightly. “A fair point, mademoiselle.”

Meg, without breaking stride, just smirks over her shoulder as she moves on.

The boys are again wheezing with laughter, and Castiel realizes they are drawing more curious gazes from others in the hall. 

Samandriel raises his tankard and they toast to ‘Meg the Merciless, Slayer of Tall Tales and Boyish Fabrications.’

Sipping his ale as his companions recover and fall back into quiet conversation, Castiel glances back to the corner where Gabriel and Brother Robert sat. His brother is gone, but Brother Robert remains. With a tired expression, he pours himself another ale from the pitcher. 

“Excuse me,” he says to his companions as he rises and goes to join Brother Robert. 

 

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“Can I speak with you, Brother Robert?” Castiel asks as the man looks up.

“Are you slow-witted or something? I thought I told you to dispense with that formal nonsense.” Brother Robert–or rather– Bobby, gestures to the chair formerly occupied by his brother.

“Sorry,” Castiel ducks his head a fraction, then sits. “Have you had any success convincing Gabriel?” he asks.

Bobby harrumphs, “That brother of yours is thick as a blackthorn thicket and twice as prickly.”

A pit opens again in Castiel's stomach. He looks absently into his cup, fingers stroking the rim.

“Maybe you can get through to him.”

“I doubt it,” Castiel sighs, thinking ashamedly of the argument this morning that ended with Gabriel expertly flipping the conversation and Castiel slamming his fist into his brother’s jaw.

“Well then,” Bobby says, rising. “There’s nothing left for it.” He draws the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe away any stray droplet of ale from his short beard. “I suppose by tomorrow you and I should head out. Make our way to St. Cuthbert’s. Your father’s made arrangements to have the first portion of your endowment sent with a contingent of guards after Yule, but there’s no reason the brothers won’t welcome you in advance of its receipt.” 

“Wait!” Castiel rises, alarmed at the finality of Bobby’s decision. “Already?”

“Like you said, you’ll not get through to him. I can’t get through to him. Gabriel’s on his own,” Bobby eyes Castiel pointedly, then turns and leaves. 

Castiel watches Bobby disappear through the main entrance to the hall. He stands frozen, his hands tightening at his sides, pulse hammering in his throat. He feels like he’s choking. There’s too much he needs to do — needs to fix, and his time and options are running out. 

He turns from the hall wishing there was someone he could talk to about Gabriel, about the village, about Dean. He leaves the great hall and heads to the chapel. There may not be answers there, but at least there’ll be quiet, so he can think before the rest of the guests of the manor start buzzing about and the entertainment starts in the afternoon.

The chapel is empty, and cold. Dark but for the Yule candles still burning on the altar. By now they would have been replaced several times, but the fire is still the same, burning with the hopes of all who closed their eyes and wished upon them. Castiel’s wish, for someone or something to anchor him, for a place to belong, still feels impossible. It would take a true miracle— a white rose in winter — to settle his soul. 

He thinks of his mother and looks to the rafters as if she might be looking down on him from on high with the rest of the saints. 

Æthelthryth, guide me, he thinks again, and decides to whisper a plea, but what comes out instead is “Anael, guide me.”

It surprises even him, but he continues.

 

“I don’t know what to do, mother,” he laments. “I’ve no fortune, no knighthood, no birthright with which to make things right. But Gabriel is falling, and Dean—” He stops himself, then huffs a mirthless laugh. “I can’t hide it from you…from heaven, can I?” he shakes his head, knowing the answer. “And, God help me, I no longer have any care to.”

 

“I am not afraid to give my life to the service of God if it means helping the people of Stowleigh and other towns near the monastery’s lands. And I’m not afraid of putting my desires aside, if that is what is required of me to be effective in His service, but I am afraid of what will happen to the people I care about when I’m gone. I am afraid of being unable to help them, to support them…Please guide me, Mother…show me what I must do?”

 

The chapel is quiet, and if Anael hears him, she is silent, at least for now.

 

Castiel’s hands are entwined in prayer. He lowers his head to rest on them a moment, drawing strength. He breathes in deeply the cold air of the empty chapel, then exhales as he rises.

 

“Æthelthryth, guide me…Anael, guide me,” he prays again, before leaving the chapel behind. 

 

The chapel is at the end of a lesser-used part of the manor, tucked among storage rooms and empty meeting chambers. He’s passing one of the chambers allotted to the troupe—a space cluttered with props and costumes—when familiar voices, tense and agitated, make him slow.

 

His ear turns before his feet do.

 

“Hold still boy! If you don’t like the feel of it on your skin, I assure you you’ll hate how it feels when it gets in your eyes!” Rowena scolds. 

 

“It’s greasy. It’s gonna make my face look like I dipped it in tallow. What is this shite anyway?”

 

“Yarrow, Arnica, and Sage, pounded into a fine flour and mixed with goose grease.”

 

Inside the chamber, Dean is seated on a bench, Rowena straddling it as she leans in to dab some kind of salve on his bruised face.

 

“Sweet Christ, it reeks!”

 

“Well too bad,” Crowley chimes in, dry as ground bone. “Because if we don’t get that swelling down then Alfred will have to be Blanchefleur in the play tonight and that boy butcher’s every role he attempts.”

 

“You don’t need Alfred. I can do it!”

 

“And take the stage looking like a cuckholded wife who caught her husband with one of his tarts and lost the brawl? I don’t think so.”

 

Castiel freezes.

 

He should move on. 

 

He should move on. He knows he should…

 

But the door is ajar.

 

Surely, if this were something they didn’t wish to be overheard, they would have taken pains to close it. He knows it’s complete merde shit—that he’s making excuses to linger. But his boots feel frozen to the stone where he stands.

 

“Deal with the smell and the grease for a few hours. I’ll be able to cover most of it with pigments and a bit of powder. In the torchlight, from a distance, you’ll pull it off.”

 

“More grease on my face?” Dean protests. “I don’t think so.”

 

Crowley scowls down at him, his voice - the slow, precise drag of a blade over a whetstone, “You don’t get a say in this princess! You’re lucky I don’t sit you out for the rest of the revels for lying about how this happened.” His glare sharpens. “You think I don’t know you went looking for a patron last night?” 

 

Dean flinches—just slightly—before Crowley swipes him upside the head. Not hard— more like a father cuffing a reckless son.

 

Dean’s eyes flash fire, but his lips are a tight line.

 

“What?” Crowley continues. “No response? No denial? My God! I’ve done it! Someone alert the King,” Crowley drolls to Rowena. “I’ve finally found the words to make Dean Winchester shut that infuriatingly smart mouth of his.”

 

Rowena shakes her head. “What are you doing, boy?”

 

"We need the coin, alright?" Dean snaps, eyes flashing. "You saw Sam last night. How far do you think he’ll make it in the cold? If we can’t get an old broken down mule or swaybacked nag to carry him, he won’t make it to spring."

 

Crowley’s expression hardens. 

"Have I ever, and I mean ever, threatened to leave you boys behind?"

Dean looks away.

"No," he mutters.

"That’s right. No," Crowley echoes. "So let’s get one thing straight—this? This is not how we survive, Dean.”

Dean scoffs, but it’s thin. Forced. "Don’t worry. I’ll be more careful next time."

"Not tonight, you won’t!” Crowley warns with a finger in his face. “Not if I have to lock you in a chastity belt myself. Do you understand me, princess?”

Dean sets his jaw, silent.

“And for that matter, if you’re going to be offering yourself up for a private performance, I’ll be doing the vetting from now on. You’re no good to your brother if you’re dead!"

Castiel’s stomach drops. 

The pieces snap into place. 

The bruises, the glances, the tension in Dean’s shoulders. The way Crowley’s voice is sharp, not with cruelty, but an anger that’s laced with concern.

And Dean— Dean, who sings of love as if it conquers all things, speaks of magic as if it can be held in the palm of one’s hand, who lightens every heart with revels…

Dean has been…he’s had to—

 

A stone lodges in his chest. Heavy. Cold. Sinking deeper, dragging everything with it. 

 

He needs to leave.

Now.

Needs to go somewhere far from this place, far from everything that’s been tearing at his soul.

Far from his father.

Far from Gabriel, 

Far from Brother Robert.

Far from—

Dean.

 

Castiel turns and walks. Quickly. Quietly. The door creeps behind him. He doesn’t stop.

The stables.

That’s where he needs to be.

He needs to ride. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere he can think. Somewhere he can breathe. 

He needs to feel the wind against his face, Gwenhwyfar’s hooves pounding against the frozen earth.

 

If he rides far enough, fast enough — maybe, for a little while…

He won’t have to feel at all.

 

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Notes:

I hope you enjoyed Meg's cameo. 😆

Funfact - One of my favorite movies is actually Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and some of the dynamics of the 'Troupe' of players is inspired by the Players in that movie / play.

Again, this day is a big turning point for Castiel. I'd love to hear your thoughts and I will answer any questions I can without spoilers!

Chapter 17: The Sixth Day of Christmas - Part III - Pageant

Notes:

Thank you to my awesome betas, Lexi and Sarah! Thank you also to everyone who's commented, kudo'd and subscribed!

 

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It’s evening when Castiel returns—the stars brightening in a night sky, blue as a kingfisher’s wings. His fingers are raw, his cheeks and lips wind-chapped, but his mind is clear, and his heart sure.

 

A guard passes through the wicket gate and light spills out into the courtyard from the glow of the torches within. With their light, the sound of laughter and music from the Great Hall pours forth from the guests at their supper and the players at their instruments and song. 

 

Gwenhwyfar nickers as Castiel dismounts. He pats her neck and leads her toward the stables, the hard strike of her hooves ringing against the stone courtyard. Inside, the lantern-lit space is warm and thick with the scent of hay and horses. Gadreel is in his workroom, taking his supper by candlelight. As Castiel enters, the older man calls out.

 

“Good evening, young master. I hope you had a good ride. Thomas here tells me you left hours ago—I was just about to ride out to look for you. Is all well?”

 

Castiel smiles. Gadreel is ever watching out for him. 

 

“Thank you, Gadreel. I’m quite well now.”

 

Gadreel stands, approaching. “Let me take Gwenhwyfar off your hands and settle her for the night. You should go warm yourself in the Great Hall and get your supper.” He reaches for the reins, but Castiel holds fast.

 

“Thank you, but I’d like to see to her myself tonight if that’s all right. I just need some oats for her supper.”

 

“Take what you need, of course. And if you change your mind, Thomas and I are at your service.”

 

Castiel thanks him, then leads Gwenhwyfar into her stall. He removes her saddle and bridle, and brushes her down, his strokes slow and deliberate. When he’s done, he fetches fresh water and a feed bag, filling it with oats. As she settles in, he lowers himself onto a nearby bale of hay, letting the stillness wrap around him. It’s almost cozy here, sheltered from the wind, warmed by the bodies of the horses. If he let himself, he could drift to sleep in the soft hush of the stables. But he has work to do—a task ahead of him. People he must see.

 

He rises once more and strokes Gwenhwyfar’s nose, resting his forehead against her a moment, eyes closed. 

 

“You’re a good girl, Gwenhwyfar,” he tells her in a choked whisper. “Thank you for putting up with me tonight,” he huffs.

 

Gadreel peeks from his workroom, checking on him, then gives a brief wave. 

 

Castiel waves back.

 

He turns to Gwenhwyfar once more in the stillness, “Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” Castiel whispers, as he strokes her neck. “He’ll be good to you. He’ll take really good care of you.”

 

He presses a kiss to her mane and turns to leave, trusting her to Gadreel’s care. 

 

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The warmth of the Great Hall is almost overwhelming after hours in the wind and cold. Castiel removes his wool and ermine cloak and folds it over his arm as he joins the gathered company. 

 

He passes a table of ladies, many of whom smile and greet him now, familiar with him from their ride together. Benny rises and clasps an arm around Castiel’s shoulder, giving a squeeze as he passes. Some of the other knights with Benny nod to him in a polite greeting. Castiel smiles, inclining his head in turn, and continues on to where his usual companions sit.

 

As he approaches, Harry raises a mug of ale in greeting and Samandriel grins, eyes glinting with a story or bit of court gossip he’s eager to share. “There he is!” Ed calls out, already half in his cups. “Where’ve you been, Castiel? We thought you’d gotten lost or something.”

 

“Not lost. No,” Castiel tells them with a calm smile as he sits. 

 

Not far from their table in the corner of the hall, Dean is playing his oud and absently gazing across at the Yule fire. At the sound of Castiel’s name, he looks up and, seeing him, his whole face changes, eyes brightening in the firelight. 

 

The warmth of Dean’s gaze does more to dispel the chill of winter from Castiel’s bones than the crackling Yule log which still blazes with heat and light after all this time. 

 

Fast, fluttering wings beat, strong and steady against his ribs — the cadence of Castiel’s heart. He laughs, thinking that his heart might fly away if it weren’t caged in his chest —  a bird who upon seeing his mate, longs to join him, singing and soaring. Longs to build its home with him. 

 

Two sparrows, nesting in the eaves.

 

Jo passes with a pitcher and pours him an ale. He thanks her and she winks as the sound of Dean’s oud rises above the hall’s chatter and laughter.

 

Castiel’s gaze returns to Dean. Unlike that first night—when he’d ducked his eyes rather than meet Dean’s—this time, he doesn't look away.

 

A smile curves his lips.

 

And now, Dean is the one blushing, ducking his gaze, smiling demurely.

 

The piece ends, and Dean sets his oud, bending and opening a small wooden chest at his feet. He draws out an instrument Castiel has never seen before –rectangular in shape, like a long box, carved with intricate patterns. Dean turns a crank on one end and a droning chord unfurls, too vast, too resonant for the diminutive box at its source. He presses its side and the melody shifts, swelling and filling the hall with its enchantment. 

 

The courtiers quiet and stare, the strange instrument transforming the Great Hall into a sacred, otherworldly place…a sanctuary - a place fit for miracles and magic. In their midst, a voice like a silver thread, clear and unbroken, rises.

 

Dean. His song is numinous and pure.

 

Dean weaves a spell over the court in a tongue not his own - the Langue d’Oc - tongue of the water-witch Melusine, from whose dreams the troubadours first drew breath. 

 

Can vei la lauzeta mover

De joi sas alas contral rai,

Que s'oblid' e.s laissa chazer

Per la doussor c'al cor li vai,

Ai! Tan grans enveya m'en ve

De cui qu'eu veya jauzion,

Meravilhas ai, car desse

Lo cor de dezirer no.m fon.

 

As before, his companions look to Castiel to translate. The Occitan words are strange — older, more lyrical than the French with which he was raised, though they are not altogether unfamiliar, and though some of the words may be lost to him, he finds their meaning in Dean’s gaze, which even now, is all for Castiel.

 

“When I see the lark beating 

Its wings in joy against the rays of the sun 

That it forgets itself and lets itself fall 

Because of the sweetness that comes to its heart, 

Alas! Such great envy then overwhelms me,”

“Of all those whom I see rejoicing, 

I wonder that my heart, at that moment, 

Does not melt from desire.

Alas! How much I thought I knew 

About love, and how little I know,”

“Because I cannot keep myself from loving 

The one from whom I will gain nothing. 

 

“She has—”

 

He hesitates. 

 

A soft smile curves Dean’s lips as he sings, and lights his eyes. 

 

Eyes that are on Castiel —still. Unwavering. 

 

He’s singing to him….singing to Castiel…

 

Castiel swallows—clears his throat, and starts again.

 

“He has all my heart, and my soul, 

And himself and the whole world; 

And when he left, nothing remained

But desire and—”

 

The words catch in his throat.

 

“Desire and a longing heart.”

 

Dean’s smile is beatific.

 

It stirs Castiel’s soul like embers caught in the wind, like the warmth of the Yule fire reviving frozen skin. But fire consumes.

 

Gabriel’s voice comes unbidden— he burns everything in his path —and for a breath, Castiel resists.

 

He holds himself back from the flames. From falling too deep.

 

And yet—something in him smolders as if waiting to ignite in the fire of Dean’s gaze. 

 

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The final note lingers, trembling in the air, before fading into silence.

 

Then, like the first breath after waking, the hall stirs. A sprinkling of applause rises in pockets—hesitant at first, reluctant to break the enchantment, then swelling as the spell unravels. Murmurs ripple through the gathered company, the weight of the moment settling into laughter, conversation, the clinking of cups.

 

The other players are moving and withdrawing. Dean’s eyes flick to Castiel—just once—before he is swept away in their midst, bustling to prepare for the play. 

 

Castiel rises, looking for Crowley, but he too slips out with them, his face unreadable in the shifting torchlight.

 

I must find him later, Castiel tells himself.

 

He turns, searching the hall for his other quarry. At one table, Gabriel, Balthazar, and Benny are deep in debate, gesturing over their cups. The high table is occupied by his father, Michael and his wife, Lord Ishim and Lady Mirabel. Across the room, Brother Robert stands near the hearth, speaking in low tones to a cluster of men. Now is the time.

 

As the hall begins its transformation—the servants clearing tables, benches scraping against stone, preparations for the next revel underway—Castiel makes his way toward Bobby, carefully threading through the shifting space.

 

“Brother Robert,” he greets tentatively, knowing the man prefers ‘Bobby’ but it feels too familiar in this mixed company of strangers and distant family.

 

Bobby arches an eyebrow in his direction, “There were bets on whether you’d scarpered off after I told you we’d be leaving tomorrow.”

 

Castiel dismisses the comment. It isn’t as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. 

 

“Forgive me…but I would speak with you in private when you have a moment please.”

 

The narrowing of Bobby’s eyes on him confirms that just as he’d intended his ‘request’ has more the effect of command. 

 

Good.

 

Now is not the time to appear open to negotiations. Now is the time to present his terms. 

 

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They leave the Great Hall. Castiel checks the door to his father’s privy chamber off the main corridor. It’s dark and empty - the embers of spent logs still glowing in the fireplace. He adds fuel to the embers and stirs the fire to life.

 

Bobby takes a seat at a nearby table where a flagon of wine sits. He sniffs at it, then grabs a half empty cup and pours it full for himself — takes another, and pours it for Castiel, as the fire blazes to life, bathing the small chamber in an orange glow. 

 

Castiel brushes the dirt and wood from his hands before taking a seat opposite Bobby. He gives a nod in thanks as the old man passes him a cup of wine. 

 

The room is warmer now, quieter than the hall, though the distant hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the Great Hall slip through the heavy wooden door.

 

Bobby watches Castiel over the rim of his cup, unreadable. Castiel stares back letting the silence stretch a moment as they drink. Bobby is an old soldier—he understands the importance of timing — certainly understands that the first man to speak often loses the upper hand.

 

So Castiel takes another swallow of wine, and waits.

 

Finally, Bobby exhales and leans back in his chair. “All right, boy. You dragged me in here, you might as well get on with it.”

 

Castiel nods, measured. “I’m curious. You’ve seen the field of battle. How do soldiers feel about men who would order the sacrifice of others for their own gain without being willing to sacrifice for them in return?”

 

Bobby eyes him curiously. “I’ll wager you didn’t bring me in here to discuss my time in the service of King Richard.”

 

“Indulge me. Please.” Castiel counters. “What would your soldiers think of such a man?”

 

Bobby exhales sharply through his nose, setting his cup down with a quiet thunk. “They’d call him a coward. And sooner or later, the men he sent to die would stop following orders.” He levels Castiel with a knowing look. “That the answer you were looking for?”

 

Castiel doesn’t answer. His eyes flick idly to his cup of wine. They’d stop following orders. 

 

“My father thinks to squirrel me away at St. Cuthbert’s and win for himself some favor in heaven for his sacrifice, but it’s hardly a sacrifice for him, is it?”

 

Bobby hums thoughtfully. “One might argue that. But service to the Lord they say, is its own reward.”

 

“You have the luxury of having chosen the cloister after years of exploring.. .experiencing the world.”

 

“I have the wisdom of that experience to tell me that living in the comfort of the cloister is preferable to dying in the melee of battle.”

 

Castiel remains stoic. This is turning into a game of chess, and Bobby is a formidable opponent. But Castiel is not going to be the one to tip over his king. Not today. 

 

“Alas, my father has seen fit to make sure I would never see the field of battle, but instead be tucked away in the safety of the cloister. The endowment he’s given for my novitiate —it’s substantial.”

 

“I’m not aware of the particulars, but I am assured it is,” Bobby remarks.

 

Castiel lifts his cup and takes a sip before continuing. 

 

“Two hundred and fifty marks.”

 

Bobby blinks. Castiel marks it. 

 

“That so?” he grunts.

 

“It is.” Castiel meets his gaze evenly. “That kind of coin can be the difference between a monastery that serves as a holy site for local pilgrims, or one that attracts devotees from all of England— perhaps even France. Is it not?”

 

Bobby’s eyes narrow slightly, his grip tightening around the handle of his cup. “It is as you say…substantial.”

 

“And yet as you said — that endowment is not yet paid.”

 

Bobby chuckles darkly. “What are you playing at, boy.”

 

He shakes his head. “Not playing. Just stating facts.”

 

Bobby sets his cup down with a quiet thunk, fingers tapping against the table. He’s listening now. Good.

 

So Castiel presses on. “An endowment of that size, I would imagine it’s one St. Cuthbert’s might agree they can’t afford to lose.”

 

Bobby nods, his smile reluctant, yet amused. “All right. You’ve made your point. You’re very well endowed. What of it?”

 

At Bobby’s words, Castiel allows himself a grin. 

 

“There’s more.” His tone sharpens. “The education of a novice or oblate? My education has surpassed it already. I’m fluent in French, Latin, and English. I can read and write—better than most of your monks, I would wager. I’m familiar with the scriptures — and not just memorized through the chants like most brothers of your order. I’ve read them. My mother had a psalter written in her tongue, and I’ve read through a Latin gospel during my time at Lord Uriel’s estate—and more than that, I can teach others what I know.”

 

He has Bobby’s full attention now. Time to position his queen. “My father is passing from this world, and while he may have had his heart set on this arrangement, my brother Michael, his heir, would no doubt feel no obligation to follow through with the rest of the endowment for my novitiate should I decide to strike out on my own path instead of taking my place at St. Cuthbert’s.”

 

A slow exhale from Bobby. He’s calculating now. Weighing his words. Castiel lets him. Lets the weight of his next words land like a strike on the battlefield.

 

“In short, St. Cuthbert’s can’t afford to lose me.”

 

Bobby lets out a low huff, something like amusement flickering behind his eyes.

 

“And that means you cannot afford to lose Gabriel.” 

 

That earns Castiel a sharp, considering look, but he doesn’t stop there.

 

“Is Gabriel to be cast aside like chaff, to be separated from the wheat and burned?” His voice hardens. “Is that the lesson of the Gospels? That a man who gave himself to the service of God, who marched beneath the Holy Cross, is to be discarded by the Church?”

 

Bobby leans back, arms crossed. Not rejecting. Not resisting. Listening.

 

“Gabriel is not chaff. He’s the prodigal son. And what does the father do when the prodigal returns? He doesn’t turn him away—he welcomes him home.”

 

Bobby’s jaw is tight, Castiel’s gaze unwavering. A silence lingers between them, thick with unspoken truths. Castiel won’t let them go unspoken any longer. He lays his final piece on the board.

 

“He may play the fool now, but underneath his unserious demeanor, Gabriel is good. Good and worthy of heart. If you spent time with him abroad, I wager you already know this. But he’s lost his way. He only needs time. Time to find his way home. And if the good brothers of St. Cuthbert’s follow the example of our Lord, if they are worthy of this endowment, they will give it to him.”

 

Bobby whistles low, shaking his head.

 

“And there’s one more thing,” Castiel adds.

 

“Let me guess,” Bobby huffs. “You ain’t packed to leave on the morrow are ya?”

 

Bobby exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Watching Castiel now—not like a stubborn youth, but like a man worth reckoning with.

 

Then, finally, the smallest of smirks.

 

"Son—" He leans back, studying Castiel like he’s seeing him properly for the first time. "Anybody ever tell you you’d make a brilliant tactician?"

 

Castiel feels a flicker of surprise at the man’s words, but he reigns it in. 

 

“Ahhh hell. I guess I wouldn’t mind a few more days of feasting and drinking up your father’s best wine.” Bobby leans back, smirking, then lifts his cup with the grace of a player conceding a match well played.

 

Castiel sits back, slow and measured but meets Bobby’s half grin with a satisfied curve to his lips as he raises his cup in turn, sealing their accord.

 

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They drain the last of their cups. There is nothing more to say. The terms are set. 

 

A distant blast of a horn muffled through stone walls garners their attention. Bobby cocks an ear toward the door. “Sounds like that mummer’s pageant is about to start.”

 

The play.

 

Dean mentioned a role in the play.

 

Castiel nods, rising, already steadying himself. 

 

He quickly banks the fire and Bobby claps him once on the shoulder as they make their way back into the corridor and to the Great Hall.

 

The Hall has transformed—the tables pushed aside, benches lined in rows for the audience. Excitement hums through the air.

 

Somewhere in the crowd, Castiel catches sight of Gabriel.

 

His brother sits near the front, to the left of the dias which serves as a stage, Rowena at his side. The moment their eyes meet, Gabriel raises a questioning eyebrow.

 

Castiel doesn’t answer. Not yet.

 

Instead, he crosses the hall and takes his seat beside them—beside his brother.

 

The horns sound again. The play is about to begin.

 

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The audience coos and chuckles as two children make their appearance on stage. Castiel immediately recognizes Michael’s two youngest—Mattias and Hael—playing their parts as one of the players narrates the scene.

 

“Floris, a Saracen prince, and Blanchefleur, a Christian maiden, grow up together as childhood friends, unaware that one day their love will blossom into something deeper.”

 

The scowl of annoyance on Matthias’ face is rivaled in intensity only by the look of whimsy and joy on Hael’s as she flits around her brother on the stage, dancing in a jeweled gown, to the awws and encouragements of the ladies in the audience.

 

The children’s brief performance before the court ends, and the hall fills with warm laughter as their nurse shuffles them offstage—presumably off to bed—while the narrator carries the story forward in time. Castiel, watching, is surprised to see Michael with an amused, almost proud smile, from his seat near their father.

 

Raphael sits beside him, attentive and unusually composed, granted what must be a rare exception to his bedtime. Hester, however, is nowhere in sight.

 

The narrator catches the audience’s attention once again as behind a sheet, shadowed silhouettes of a young man and a young woman can be seen. The young woman curtsies and the young man goes down on one knee, the shadowed outline of a flower extended from his hand to the maiden, who takes it and clutches it to her breast, but in the background, a stern shadow stands looming — Floris’ disapproving father — intent on their separation. 

 

They reach for one another but are pulled apart as the narrator tells how Prince Floris is sent away to study, his cruel father ordering Blanchefleur sold to traveling merchants, then writing his son to tell him his beloved is dead in the hopes he will forget her, forever.

 

Castiel finds himself drawn into the narrative, awed at the emotion the players are able to invoke with only silhouette and shadow. 

 

When next Floris appears on the stage, he is grown — a young man.

 

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The boy playing Floris steps into the firelit glow of the hall, his small frame upright with a quiet, princely composure. Large, dark eyes flickering with intelligence, a fine-boned, youthful face with just the beginnings of what could one day be a beard, and an unruly mess of dark hair atop his head. By all accounts a handsome young prince.

 

But he is not Dean. 

 

It’s another player of the troupe. Aaron, Castiel thinks his name is.

 

He glances around the hall for any sign of Dean. Surely he’d said something about having a role in the play. After watching his performance as the young shepherd some knights before, Castiel had assumed Dean might again play the hero of the story.

 

The candlelight catches the sheen in Floris’ dark hair as he moves, the silk of his tunic gliding around his legs. He blinks once, solemnly, scanning the gathered court as if they are part of his world. 

 

Floris mourns, a feigned sadness so true that Castiel feels it, too. He thinks of the ache he felt when he and Inias were parted… the ache he fears will strike him again when, at last, he is parted from—

 

No.

 

He clears his throat, straightening, pushing the thought from his mind.

 

Several players make changes to the dias and when the action begins the audience is transported to the Emir’s palace. Crowley yells and blusters as the Emir, ordering the presence of the newest addition to his harem. 

 

The palace guards leave the stage, returning a moment later with a maiden. She wears a veil over her nose and mouth but Castiel can tell she’s fair of skin, with long, wavy locks of hair. She wears an elegant green silk dress that contrasts with the gold highlights in her hair. 

 

The Emir orders her to dance, and several players start in with drums, a reed pipe, and a psalter. Castiel is drawn in. He’s ensorcelled by the silken movements of the young maiden’s dance, tainted with sadness and longing for her lost love.

 

Blanchefleur turns and turns, twirling as she’s been taught, to the sounds of the drums, hips moving seductively until at last the music winds down.

 

Crowley as the harsh Emir approaches, demanding Blanchefleur remove her veil. At her hesitation the Emir raises her chin with his hand, removing it himself and—

 

Oh.

 

Castiel’s heart drums in his chest faster than in the player’s melody, envisioning again those twirls, the soft and flowing movements of Blanchefleur’s arms, the rhythmic sway of Blanchefleur’s hips—

 

And the memory clicks.

 

‘if we don’t get that swelling down then Alfred will have to be Blanchefleur in the play tonight.’

 

Suddenly those sultry eyes catch his, for just a fraction of a moment, but it’s enough.

 

Blanchefleur is Dean.

 

And Dean… Dean is breathtaking.

 

Castiel’s muscles tense, and he has to remind himself it’s only a play as Dean clenches his fists at his side in response to the liberties Crowley takes as the Emir, clutching him, pinning him, dragging a hand through his— -her — through Blanchefleur’s hair. More than once his instinct to rise from his seat in Blanchefleur’s—Dean’s defense has Gabriel eyeing him sideways.

 

Professing his love for Blanchefleur, the Emir declares he will make her his bride, before storming out to make preparations. Blanchefleur is left alone…sinking to the floor in her sorrow, and longing for Floris, her lost love. 

 

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The murmurs of the hall quiet as the next act begins.

 

From the shadows of the stage, a figure steps into the firelit glow—a young man clad in fine silks, his posture upright with a quiet, princely composure. His dark curls gleam with hints of gold in the flickering candlelight, and his large, intelligent eyes sweep across the gathered court as though searching for something—or someone.

 

Prince Floris has come for his beloved.

 

He moves with measured grace toward a merchant’s stall, where an older man in a foreign turban arranges his wares. Floris speaks—his voice a careful balance of regal authority and youthful desperation.

 

Through hushed whispers and fervent exchange, he learns the truth.

 

Blanchefleur is alive.

 

Not lost to death, as he had been told, but stolen away—sold to the palace of a powerful Emir in Al-Andalus. The weight of the revelation crushes him, leaving his lips parted in stunned disbelief before resolve hardens in his eyes.

 

With a decisive nod, he turns on his heel, the fabric of his tunic swirling about him like the banners of a knight marching to war. The audience watches, breath held, as the young prince sets out on his perilous journey.

 

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The Emir's palace erupts into a flurry of movement as the scene shifts. Guards cross the stage in strides, torchlight throwing long, dancing shadows upon the walls. From the depths of the harem, Blanchefleur— Dean —emerges once more, silk pooling at his feet as he kneels, a vision of beauty and sorrow.

 

And then, at last, Floris arrives.

 

The palace guards fall one by one to Floris’ sword, their bodies crumpling as the young prince fights his way into the Emir’s harem. The tension in the hall is electric, the audience watching, breath held, as the last guard — the final obstacle— is dispatched by the young prince

 

And then, at last, he is there.

 

Blanchefleur—Dean—stands frozen, wrapped in green silk and flickering candlelight. He clutches a veil that has long since fallen from his hair, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, the picture of astonishment and trembling devotion.

 

Floris takes a step forward.

 

"Blanchefleur," he breathes.

 

Dean’s voice is soft and light when he, as Blanchefleur, answers.

 

“Floris…my Floris. You’ve come for me!”

 

Dean tilts his head, wide eyes catching the light, his lips parting just so. He plays the role to perfection, the embodiment of a rescued maiden—but Castiel knows better. Knows the man beneath the silk, his body not delicate but strong. Knows the solid weight of him from the wrestling match, the heat of his skin when their arms tangled, his strength pressing against Castiel’s own, neither yielding.

 

And yet—Dean is graceful here, his movements soft, his touch delicate as he lifts a trembling hand to Floris’ cheek. He sways slightly as he steps forward, a contradiction Castiel can’t unravel. Dean’s presence—his body, his movement, his everything —confuses him now. Unmoors him. Makes him ache in ways he doesn’t understand.

 

Because Castiel has never wanted something like this before.

 

He’s never watched a dance, a sway of hips, a soft step, and trailing hand— never watched movements so feminine in nature and felt something coil tight in his chest, like this. Never watched a damsel’s rescue and imagined himself in the hero’s place, imagined being the one who knelt, who held Dean’s face in his hands, who felt Dean’s weight press against him—not yielding, but strong and warm and sure.

 

It doesn’t stop the burning in his chest when Aaron— Floris — drops to his knees, takes Blanchefleur’s hands in his own, and murmurs words of love.

 

The hall watches in rapt attention. Castiel watches with something else in his heart as the world slips from his periphery.

 

The play has become too sharp—too real. Castiel’s lungs feel too tight in his chest. He watches, transfixed, unable to look away as Blanchefleur—Dean—lets his lips part, his expression trembling with love, with relief, and with longing.

 

Dean exhales shakily, gazing into Aaron’s eyes as though truly seeing his lost love for the first time. 

 

They— 

 

They kiss.

 

It’s not a mere brush of lips. Not a chaste peck exchanged for propriety’s sake. It’s a kiss, full of longing and careful passion—staged perhaps…measured, but —-

 

There’s a stone in Castiel’s throat. His jaw held so tightly now it pains him. He can feel his brother’s eyes boring into the side of his face.

 

A hush falls over the hall as the courtiers stare with delighted smiles at the reunited lovers

 

Floris and Blanchefleur.

 

Aaron and Dean.

 

Castiel's fingers curl into his tunic.

 

He grips his own wrist to keep from moving, to keep from doing something foolish, something reckless. Something that would make his brother’s amused glances turn into knowing smirks.

 

A hand claps over his shoulder. "Relax, little brother," Gabriel murmurs near his ear, low enough that no one else can hear. "You look like you're about to challenge Prince Floris to a duel."

 

Castiel jerks his shoulder free, heat rising to his cheeks as Gabriel chuckles.

 

Dean’s eyes are closed, his hands are in Aaron’s, his body tilts slightly forward, their foreheads touching as if they are drawn to each other, as if this were something real.

 

Castiel swallows, over stone.

 

It should be him.

 

He longs to be that presence at Dean’s back, to press himself against Dean’s strength, to feel the contradiction of him, the work-hardened body, and the dancer’s grace. Longs to be the one Dean looks to, to come for him, to fight for him, to comfort him.

 

The kiss ends.

 

Blanchefleur pulls away, breathless, eyes brimming with unshed tears as Floris whispers something meant only for her.

 

The play moves on.

 

Castiel exhales, jaw set.

 

He reminds himself— it’s just the revels. 

 

Just the revels. 

 

Just the revels. 

 

But even as the words echo in his mind, he knows they are a lie.

 

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The rest of the tale passes in a blur — the couple’s subsequent capture, the Emir’s wrath, and their final cunning escape. The hall erupts into applause. A wave of sound crashes over Castiel, startling him, breaking the spell.

 

It’s over.

 

The players take their bows, Dean among them—Blanchefleur no longer, but still wrapped in silk and candlelight, golden hair tousled from the performance. He grins as the applause swells, offering first a curtsey fitting of Blanchefleur, and then a gallant bow, slipping effortlessly from one role to another.

 

Castiel exhales, and applauds, only now realizing how tightly he’d been gripping the edge of his seat. He swallows hard, but before he can even gather himself, the court is moving—rising from benches, talking, laughing, filing toward the tables where wine is being poured in celebration. The play is done, and the night carries on.

 

Dean disappears before Castiel can find his feet, slipping through the crush of bodies with the other players, no doubt off to change.

 

It leaves Castiel standing at the edge of it all, disoriented, heart still pounding.

 

He should leave it alone. He should shake off whatever this is, but the whirling of his mind is hard to settle.

 

But then, his gaze flickers toward Crowley, still standing near the dais, exchanging easy words with one of the courtiers and he remembers himself.

 

Remembers the talk still before him.

 

He looks around. Dean is nowhere to be seen. This is his chance.

 

His pulse steadies with purpose. He waits, biding his time while Crowley and the other courtier finish their conversation.

 

When at last the other man has moved on, he strides toward Crowley.

 

Crowley’s brows raise in surprise as he eyes Castiel’s approach.

 

“Now what, pray tell, can I do for the son of Lord Charles, my patron?” he asks drily.

 

Castiel eyes him heavily.

 

“I want to make a deal.”

 

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Notes:

Okay, so sorry - there IS one more chapter in this day, and this day as a whole is Castiel's turning point.

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!!!

Dean's Song - two versions:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpyHpirHgeA&t=18s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1R1FXjDn7Yo

Castiel is thinking of this scripture when Dean's music and song transform the Great Hall: Isaiah 6: 2-3
Above him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying. 3 And they were calling to one another:
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty;
the whole earth is full of his glory.”

Chapter 18: The Sixth Day of Christmas - Part IV- Angel

 

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“A deal,” Crowley repeats flatly, eyes narrowing shrewdly on Castiel’s own.

 

“Yes. A deal,” Castiel reiterates.

 

Crowley laughs mirthlessly, lifting his eyes to the ceiling before settling back on Castiel.

 

“This is about a certain green-eyed member of my troupe, isn’t it? The one you’ve been fawning over this past week? Why come to me? You’ve been listening around corners, haven’t you? Well?” Crowley crosses his arms. “Show me your coin then.”

 

“I don’t—” Castiel looks around furtively, but they are out of earshot of the others. “I don’t have coin. Not enough anyway.”

 

Crowley sighs, “Look lad, I get that you’re smitten, and I see the doe-eyes he makes at you. Just what do you think he would say if he knew you were trying to buy his…attentions?”

 

“It’s not like that!”

 

Crowley huffs. 

 

“You know, you may think you have it rough because dearest papá is sending you off to the cloister. Boo hoo. Any of these boys would trade their left arms for that kind of guarantee— warmth, food, safety? There’s a reason Dean is doing this and it isn’t for kicks. Now bugger off.”

 

Crowley turns to go.

 

But Castiel won’t be put off so easily.

 

“He won't be going with anyone,” Castiel says authoritatively, grabbing Crowley’s arm to stop him.

 

“What’s that now?”

 

“I don’t want to buy Dean’s ‘attentions.’ I don’t want Dean to have to sell his— him… himself.” The words are hard to say aloud. Castiel’s throat feels strangely raw from the effort. “I—” He lets out a breath, steels his jaw.

 

Crowley is staring. Waiting. Skeptical.  

 

But Castiel is determined. He’s been over this in his mind a hundred times by now — hours and hours in the cold.

 

     He’s good and kind, Sweetheart.

     He’ll be good to you. —take good care of you.

     Even love you— just like I do.

     He needs you now, Gwenhwyfar, even more than I do.

 

“Gwenhwyfar,” Castiel says finally.

 

Something sharpens in Crowley’s gaze. 

 

“Excuse me? Did I understand you correctly?” he steps closer, lowering his voice. 

 

“Dean won’t be going with anyone. I’m paying for his time - for the rest of the time he is here. But—” he hastens to add, “not for that. Not for him to be a—a courtesan. He needs a horse. I—have a horse.”

 

Crowley’s eyes narrow. “What are you playing at, boy? If you want to gift him your horse, why not just tell him yourself?”

 

Castiel exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Because Dean is proud. I believe he’d be too proud— too stubborn to accept it.” His hands tighten at his sides, his voice quieter now, hoarse with something he can’t quite swallow down. “But when I’m gone…” He wets his lips, and forces himself to say it. “When I leave—there won’t be a reason for him not to take her.”

 

His throat works, his breath is uneven. He can feel Crowley’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t look away. He won’t.

 

“And just what do you propose I tell him?”

 

“Tell him anything – anything to give him peace of mind. Tell him you were able to secure a mount but —I don’t know -you’ll think of something. So long as he doesn’t know it’s me. And he can’t know it’s Gwenny he’ll be taking. I will be leaving with Brother Robert at the end of Yule, and I’ll leave Gabriel instructions that Dean is to have Gwenhwyfar.”

“So you’re telling me, you’re so besotted with our little songbird that you’re willing to give up your most valuable treasure – a horse worth more than Dean could make in months of ‘private performances’ —and you want nothing? Not even one night of him warming your bed to show for it? How do I know you won’t renege on the deal?”

 

“Draw up a contract if you like. Brother Robert can bear witness to it.”

 

Crowley allows a grin to curve his lips. “So…you’re his guardian angel then, is that it? Alright.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll draw up the contract. We’ll sign it on the morrow.”

 

“And Dean’s nights are his own —to spend with his brother, or however he wishes. He’ll know his brother will be safe — that a mount has been secured. You give your word.”

 

“Cross my heart,” Crowley says, crossing himself. “You’ve got yourself a deal. But don’t think for a moment I don’t see what’s happening here, Angel.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Crowley shakes his head. “Oh,… you can pretend you’re not interested in the payment, but I see what you’re doing.”

 

Castiel frowns. “I don’t—”

 

“You don’t want him to know because if he did, he might feel like he owes you.” Crowley folds his arms, watching Castiel with an expression that almost passes for amusement—but there’s something tired beneath it. Something old. “And if you ever thought for a second that his friendship, his kindness—his... affections even—came from obligation, that’d ruin you, wouldn’t it?”

 

Castiel’s breath catches, but he doesn’t deny it. Is that what this is? 

 

His mind is buzzing. 

 

No.

 

Of course, he cares about Dean and his brother — of course he does. And Dean has been like a friend to Castiel these past few days. Not like a friend — a friend. And yes, Dean is— handsome, and beguiling, and when he sang tonight it seemed like he might even be singing to Castiel, and he can’t deny the way that made him feel. 

 

But he’d set his mind on this course of action before he’d even returned to the manor. Almost as soon as he learned the truth about what Dean had been forced to resort to. 

 

Truth be told — it wasn’t the first time it crossed his mind. He’d thought about it once or twice since he’d confronted his father about the deal Michael had made. It weighed more heavily on him when he’d seen the fragile state of Dean’s brother. As much as letting go of his Gwenhwyfar hurt, he knew this was what he wanted —- needed. Because even though Castiel loved her, Dean needed her more than he did, and he’d already seen Dean’s capacity for love. Dean would love Gwenhwyfar too, and…maybe—just maybe he’d remember Castiel with fondness from time to time, the way Castiel would most assuredly remember Dean.

 

That’s it. That’s all it is.

 

But Crowley steps closer, his sharp gaze raking over Castiel like he’s summed him up.  

 

“You don’t want to own him. You want him to choose you. Freely.” His head tilts, watching, measuring. “What’s he to you? He’s of no rank. No consequence. Why not take your fun while you can, like the rest of your lot?”

 

The words barely leave Crowley’s mouth before Castiel moves.

 

His body surges forward.

 

“That’s not—” he stops, struggling for the words.

 

“He is not some plaything! Not some passing amusement for a spoiled lord’s bed! Dean has more honor in his heart than half the men at that high table combined!”

 

Crowley tilts his head, squinting at him like he’s trying to decipher a particularly fanciful creature in a bestiary — a myth come to life. One he’s sung about in ballads and dismissed with a scoff, but now finds standing before him, flesh and blood and maddeningly sincere.

 

"My God. You actually believe in it all, don't you?"

 

Castiel sets his jaw. “Believe in what?”

 

Crowley snorts. “The songs, the ballads, true love, chivalry, gallantry—all of it. I hate to break it to you, Angel, but they’re just stories. Pretty illusions we players spin in exchange for our bread and butter. Your ilk don’t pay us to tell them the truth.”

 

Castiel’s jaw tightens. “What truth?”

 

Crowley exhales as if the answer should be obvious. “The truth that the world doesn’t work like that. People don’t work like that. Chivalry is just a pleasant fiction we entertainers invented to flatter our patrons.” His smirk fades slightly, his voice quieter now, almost pitying as his eyes flick over Castiel from head to toe. 

 

“You stand here like Tristan ready to defend Isolde’s honor, and want to pretend to me that you haven’t fallen for him? Well, I’ve got some difficult news for you, sweet Angel. It takes more than love to conquer all things. The nobility take what they want and don’t care who gets ruined in the process.” 

 

Crowley’s voice dips, quiet but weighted, “You of all people should know that.”

 

The words hit exactly as they are meant to. He doesn’t have to ask what Crowley means. He’s lived it.

 

Castiel stiffens. He lowers his eyes, with a nod of acknowledgment.

 

Crowley turns to go.

 

“Maybe you’re right about one thing,” Castiel murmurs, and Crowley pauses, turning back. “Maybe…maybe I have, ‘fallen’ as you say…and maybe love can’t conquer all things.” 

 

Castiel swallows, raising his chin to meet Crowley’s world-weary gaze. 

 

“But this isn’t about what I want. Love’s not in the getting. It's in the giving. And if love can make Dean give everything of himself—even his very body—to keep his brother safe, then it can damn well give him a horse.”

 

Crowley’s eyes flick with something indecipherable. 

 

“I’ll do as you ask. Dean’s mind and heart will be put at ease in regard to his brother, in regard to a mount.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Crowley’s lips twitch—not quite a smile. He turns and mutters something. It’s nearly inaudible, but Castiel catches it.

 

“Amours nous fait tous fols.”Love makes fools of us all.

 

“Sapientia sine amore nihil est,” Wisdom without love is nothing. he fires back.

 

Crowley stops. Just for a moment. His head tilts, barely perceptible. Then, with a soft huff of laughter, he shakes his head. 

 

“Deus te adiuvet, Angelus,” May God help you, Angel. he calls out as he leaves Castiel to rejoin the courtiers in the Great Hall.

 

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Castiel makes his way back toward the main gathering.

 

It’s done.

 

He should feel lighter. Relieved. 

 

But as he sees the courtiers mixing with one another, now mixing and trading banter with some of the players there’s an itch under his skin that he can’t quite scratch.

 

Two of the players, Ash and Mick, are quietly removing the painted curtains and pieces they’d used to create the illusion of the Emir’s palace. A few others take out instruments, playing softly to provide a pleasant atmosphere now that the evening is winding down. Castiel notices that Sam is among them. He sits on a stool near the dias and plays a rebec. Alfred sits next to him with a wood whistle playing a harmony.

 

Several young ladies and at least one squire are fawning over Aaron as he mingles with them, still dressed as Prince Floris. Castiel searches the room for Blanchefleur, but Dean is still absent. 

 

Perhaps it’s just taking longer for him to change out of his wig and his gown, but his absence sets Castiel on edge as he scans the crowd. Somewhere here in the manor, perhaps even here in the hall, is the person or persons who laid violent hands upon Dean. 

 

Amara is laughing with Sir Andrew. Uriel drinks with Ishim and his father, unconcerned. He’s never cared about her dalliances before—why start now? 

 

A few of the older lords and knights speak together near the fire as he passes —cups of wine in hand as they watch the crowd. 

 

“Pretty little thing, that Blanchefleur,” Lord Zachariah says looking about the hall. “Where is she, I wonder.”

 

Castiel slows, one ear focused in his direction. 

 

“That’s no ‘she,” another replies with a snort. “That’s the same young man who sang earlier.”

 

“It can’t be! Danced and sounded just like a damsel on that stage.”

 

“Quite the performer, that one. Bend him over a table and hike up those skirts and you might not know the difference.”

 

Castiel freezes mid-step, fists clenched. 

 

Zachariah chokes coughing on his wine, which sends the other men chuckling. “That’s — that’s outrageous!”

 

“Oh come now,” another man says. “Don’t play the prude. We’ve all had a tup with a lad or two in our younger days, far from home and comfort. Can’t be helped. A man has needs. Besides one fleshy backside and a warm hole is as good as the next once you rut into it.”

 

“Better some might say. At least there’s no risk of a bastard in that bargain.”

 

“The Church calls it unnatural,” Zachariah objects.

 

“Nonsense. No one’s suggesting anything as ungodly as sending love letters to the little tart, just dip your wick.”

 

“Now, now, gentlemen. Don’t mind Zachariah. He’s just choosy about his whores,” the first man jests and they laugh. 

 

“Well, of this lot, I’d say Blanchefleur is the pick of the litter.”

 

 

Castiel turns sharply to face them.

 

“You won’t talk about him that way!”  The words pour out hot and loud. The rage pulsing under his skin makes his fists flex and clench. His chest rises and falls with the fast, uneven breath of anger.

 

One of the lords steps forward—the man he’d seen riding in with Zachariah. He comes face to face with Castiel—eyes glittering with the challenge.

 

“Who’s this puppy who deigns to dictate what we can and cannot say?”

 

“That’s Charles’ bastard. One of them at least.” Castiel’s eyes snap to Zachariah.

 

“See,” another laughs. “The perfect illustration of my point. Why litter the countryside with bastards when you can slake your thirst with a quick swive in a warm arse?” 

 

Castiel steps toward the latest one to speak but an arm on his chest pulls him back. 

 

“Ignore my father’s mishap, my lords. Ever since he learned he’s meant for the cloister he’s thought to lord his righteous indignation over us all.”

 

It’s Michael, pulling him back and stepping into their circle in his place. 

 

“The cloister will do him some good. A few months of silence might teach him restraint,” he sneers, garnering a few laughs at Castiel’s expense.

 

Castiel seethes, nails biting into his palms. He’s going to knock that sneer off Michael’s face! 

 

He steps forward to settle with Michael when suddenly Gabriel is in front of him, quietly forcing him back. 

 

“Not those men, little brother.”

 

“They insulted De—-”

 

“Don’t be a daft mooncalf!” Gabriel hisses, cuffing him on the side of the head. “Do you know who that man is?”

 

Castiel swallows, looking back to the man Michael is laughing with. The man who joked about bending Dean over. The one who’d stepped close to meet his challenge.

 

“That’s Lord Alastair. The old king’s torturer.”

 

“Henry’s tortur—”

 

“Yes, that’s the one,” Gabriel nods. “You’ve no doubt heard the stories. Legend has it he once made a man cut his own balls off just by talking to him, then had him feed them to his dogs. King Richard had him dismissed because his practices produced more corpses than actionable information. You don’t want him to take notice of you, little brother, believe me.”

 

Castiel glances past Gabriel to where Michael stands, smiling and laughing with the older lords—Alastair included. 

 

Despite Michael’s open disdain for him, something protective rises in Castiel.

 

“What about Michael then?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “Is it not dangerous for him as well?”

 

“Michael has of yet no quarrel with Lord Alastair. And you’ll not find him throwing down his gauntlet to defend the honor of a boy who spreads his legs and sighs prettily for the right price, as though he’s defending Æthelthryth the virgin. Besides —Michael will likely be lord of the manor soon in less than a fortnight. He’ll have to deal with men like Alastair then.”

 

Castiel whips his head back, glaring at Gabriel. His pulse hammers in his ears.

 

Gabriel holds his gaze, unflinching.

 

“See, this is what I’m talking about. Get a grip on yourself, Castiel. Don’t stare. Don’t look. Walk away now, before you put Dean and yourself in real danger.”

 

“Why are they even here? What has our father to do with the likes of them?” he spits angrily. “Grasping old men without humanity.”

 

“Don’t be naive, Moppet,” Gabriel says, his voice a cold warning. “Our father, in his time, was as grasping and inhuman as they come.” 

Castiel stares at him for a long moment. Gabriel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Then, without another word, Castiel turns on his heel—anger burning in his chest—and pushes his way through the gathering of courtiers. He casts a glance toward his father’s chair, but Lord Charles is being led out to retire to his chambers. Lord Ishim and Uriel remain behind.

Coming to the great hearth, Castiel stops, hand on the mantle, and takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe, to settle himself. To think.

 

Crowley said Dean went looking for a patron. Did he mean that literally? As opposed to a patroness? He glances back toward the group of men. Was it one of them? Was it Alastair? 

 

He will find out who it was and somehow he’ll make them pay. 

 

He pushes away from the mantle, turning away from the sickening scene of his brother ingratiating himself with the vile group of men. Castiel wanders the hall amidst the banter around him —the laughter and smiles, feeling disconnected.

 

He reaches his usual companions and Ed asks where he disappeared to, but it’s rhetorical as he dives back into the tale he’s telling. Samandriel clasps him on the shoulder and asks if he’s alright. He forces a smile and nods as Harry hands him an ale. They’re all right there, but he feels a league away, their voices muffled as if underwater as his thoughts narrow in on one question. 

 

Where is Dean?

 

He excuses himself. His feet move before his mind catches up, taking the side door the players use to slip away unseen. The corridor is dim, quieter - the sounds of revelry fading behind him. He doesn’t stop until he finds himself at the players’ quarters.

 

In the quiet of the candlelit room Dean sits, head in his hands.

 

Castiel knocks on the doorframe. Dean sits up, a tired half-smile on his face. 

 

“Hey Cas,” he greets, as Castiel steps inside.

 

“Hello, Dean.” He looks around the chamber but Dean is alone. “Am I intruding?”

 

“Heh,” Dean chuckles. “No. I was just…just getting ready to join everyone in the hall.”

 

Dean says it with a smile, but it’s forced. Dean may be an expert player, but tonight he can’t disguise the reluctance in his eyes. He is careworn and weary. He pushes himself up from the bench, his movements stiff.

 

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, noticing how Dean winces as he straightens.

 

“I’m fine. Just a little stiff. Been a while since I rode a horse. It’s always worse the next day,” he says easily, though his eyes flick away. “I just gotta cover some of these bruises again and I’ll be right out, alright? Maybe you can tell Crowley for me.”

 

“No,” Castiel says without thinking. But now that he’s said it, he finds he means it.

 

“What?” 

 

A crinkle forms between Dean’s eyes and Castiel realizes it must have sounded like an order, but that’s alright. It is an order. 

 

“No, Dean,” he says with every ounce of authority he can muster stepping closer. “You need rest. You’re stiff and weary because you went out of your way to keep me safe on route to Dunwick and back, and upon returning you spent the evening agonizing over your brother.” He knows it’s a half-truth—that Dean tried doing more for his brother than agonizing over him.

 

“The others—I won’t leave them to do everything. I can pull my own weight.”

 

“And you’ve more than done that already. Your performance was—” Castiel suddenly finds himself lost for words, warmth spreading through him at the memory of Dean’s voice. 

 

“That bad, huh?” Dean huffs.

 

“Transcendent,” Castiel finishes, the word rough, almost broken on his tongue.

 

“Transcendent?” Dean’s brows rise, his voice is soft, hopeful.

 

Castiel nods slowly, drawn into Dean’s hopeful gaze. 

 

“Transcendent,” he says again, his own gaze unwavering. “Pure as a holy spring. Reverent as a prayer before dawn.”

 

A small, still weary, but genuine smile curves Dean’s lips. A delicate blush colors his cheeks. He lowers his eyes a moment, almost shyly. 

 

“You sound like a troubadour, Cas.”

 

Now it’s Castiel who smiles.

 

“It’s true,” he shrugs. “And your performance in the play—it was wonderful, Dean.”

 

Castiel sees it again in his mind’s eye—Dean beneath the torchlight, every movement poised and deliberate—- something delicate in the way he held himself, something graceful.

 

Something feminine.

 

But there’s the strangeness of it —because Castiel’s never been stirred by the curve of a woman’s hips or the courtly softness young men are supposed to long for. But watching Dean like that—something inside him had tightened. Heated.

 

It wasn’t the gown. 

 

It wasn’t the role.  

 

It was Dean—letting some quiet part of himself unfold onstage like a secret he wasn’t ashamed to share. 

 

Where the others saw Blanchefleur, Castiel saw Dean — and just as Floris longed to shield his beloved, Castiel longed… .longs, to shield what is rare and lovely from a world that will not hesitate to crush it.

 

Dean huffs, looking down. “Alfred would make a better Blanchefleur if he could get the lines right. I was supposed to be Floris.”

 

“You were beauti—. Blanchefleur was beautiful, Dean. You made her so.” He searches for the right words. “I knew it was you and—somehow it wasn’t you,” Castiel swallows. He’s babbling like a fool, now. “I have never seen a pageant such as this. You made their love seem so real. Something delicate and real unfolding before us on that stage. The whole hall was enraptured.” 

 

Dean blinks, but says nothing.

 

Castiel pulls at the collar of his tunic, feeling over-warm in the crowded storeroom. He decides to change the subject, or rather, return to the matter at hand.

 

“You’ve more than earned your rest, Dean. And because I know you to be a stubborn ass of a man, I’m escorting you to your quarters to make sure you get it.”

 

And to make sure Dean is safe along the way. Although this part he keeps to himself.

 

“Lording your status over me again, eh?” Dean grins.

 

Castiel returns the grin, slower, steadier. He lifts his chin and steps closer.

 

“You will go to bed now, Dean Winchester,” he says with a teasing air of authority.

 

Dean blinks, his eyes wide. His smile slips, lips parting, and Castiel’s eyes flick down just a moment to see Dean wet his lips…those lush full lips and —oh!

 

Oh— Dean liked that.

 

Dean’s chest rises and falls as his breath quickens, and Castiel’s heart answers in kind. His eyes flick back to meet Dean’s gaze as it darkens…and some primal part of Castiel understands what that means, and his body begins to respond without conscious thought. 

 

The air feels thick and sweet around them like the taste of wine on the tongue, and Castiel feels like he’s had too much already and yet not nearly enough. But it isn’t wine his body craves…it’s Dean.

 

The moment lingers, but in the end it’s Castiel who blinks and breaks away, with a slow exhale. He takes a step back and clears his throat.

 

“Consider that an order,” Castiel says, quieter now, his voice low and warm. But he can’t quite stop the smile that curves his lips—not when Dean is still standing there, wide-eyed and breathless.

 

He turns, extending his arm toward the door in invitation for Dean to lead the way out.

 

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They leave together, but rather than lead Dean past the Great Hall and through the wicket gate, Castiel tugs on Dean’s sleeve and guides them down the corridor to the kitchen. 

 

“You’ve not eaten. I know your troupe eats together when the revels are done, as do many of the servants. There has to be something left simmering in one of Mildred’s pots to eat. You shouldn’t go to bed hungry.”

 

Dean huffs a laugh, “Wouldn’t be the first time, Cas,” he says with an easy smile.

 

Castiel tilts his head, gaze narrowing, as if the new angle might reveal the truth Dean’s smile is trying to hide. 

 

“If I had any say in it, Dean, you'd never go hungry.”

 

Dean’s cheeks redden and Castiel looks quickly away, searching for a bowl and spoon. 

 

They sit across from each other at one of the work tables. Castiel watches fondly as Dean finishes off a bowl of venison stew. He rises to ladle his friend another and shakes his head with a small laugh at how right it feels, taking care of Dean.

 

“What?” Dean asks.

 

“Nothing.”

 

Before Dean can argue, Castiel lays the second helping of stew in front of him and busies himself by cutting a piece of the ginger cake Mildred made for the guests earlier that day. With his mouth full of crumbs, Dean’s eyes light up. The moan of pleasure that ensues is nearly as indecent as Castiel’s thoughts upon hearing it. And when Dean’s tongue darts over his lips to savour the last trace, the heat of arousal coils deep in Castiel’s belly and turns aside with a shiver.

 

‘ Stop gawking!’ he thinks, dragging his eyes away. ‘Dean’s been through enough already.’

 

A short while later, when they rise from the table and Castiel walks Dean to the side door of the kitchen.

 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, turning and laying a hand on Castiel's arm, “But you’ve done enough. You don’t have to walk me all the way to our quarters.”

 

Castiel's eyes drift to Dean's hand, his warm fingers wrapped firmly over his forearm and doesn't think he's imagining the subtle brush of Dean's thumb over his sleeve.

 

“Nonsense,” he huffs, laying his own hand over Dean's for a moment and giving a gentle squeeze. “I’d planned on checking in on Gadreel before bed anyway,” he lies.

 

He lets his hand fall, and Dean's follows, but the ghost of Dean's warmth on him remains. 

 

They step outside, skin prickling, huffing small clouds in the frigid evening cold.  Dean draws his arms around himself rubbing along his biceps to keep warm as they walk. 

 

“You’ve forgotten your cloak.”

 

“It’s fine. I’ll get it tomorrow. I’d rather not go looking for it now.”

 

Castiel wants to give Dean his cloak. He reaches for the clasp and then thinks better of it. He doesn’t want Dean to think him a ‘daft mooncalf,’ as Gabriel so put it. He aims instead for distraction.

 

“The song you sang—do you speak langue d’oc?”

 

Dean laughs, his amusement genuine. “Saints no! But saw a troubadour sing it once. A real one. Traveling with the king.”

 

“You’ve met King Richard?”

 

“Well…no. But I guess you could say we crossed paths.”

 

Castiel walks by Dean’s side, stealing the occasional glance as Dean tells the tale. Dean’s eyes light up with the memory of something remarkable, and Castiel can’t help but smile at it.

 

“We were in Sussex, engaged to entertain at a wedding when a man from Aquitaine, Faidit — Gaucelm Faidit— you’ve heard of him?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer. “He was passing through with the king on his way back to France. They stayed a night at the Earl’s estate. King Richard was busy with some council or another but his troubadour, Faudit, made an appearance that evening and sang that song in honor of the man who wrote it. Bertran de Born — he’s another troubadour from Queen Eleanor’s court, or was I guess.  Faidit said ‘the Lord took him,’ —all somber like, so we all thought he’d died, right?”

 

Dean huffs a laugh. “Turns out he just went into a monastery. Which for a poet, I guess, is the same thing.”

 

He chuckles, then glances at Castiel. Dean’s smile falters.

 

“Ah. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

 

“No, it’s alright,” Castiel says quietly, but his voice is far away.

 

Dean shifts beside him, rubbing the back of his neck as a tense silence falls between them. Castiel wants desperately to break it but has no words.

 

Thankfully, after a moment, Dean forges on. 

 

“Um…anyway, I was supposed to be in another part of the castle juggling and performing tumbling tricks, but me, Sammy and Ash snuck in to listen. I mean, who knows if we’d ever get the chance again right? A real troubadour from Queen Eleanor’s court! It was so lovely. We learned it by heart, even though we didn’t know what it meant at the time. Could tell it was something special, you know?”

 

“Yes.” Castiel nods slowly, remembering the way Dean’s song blended with the ethereal voice of the strange instrument, weaving together sweet lyrics and music like silver thread through a tapestry. “You only heard it once? How did you learn it so fast if you didn’t know the language?”

 

Dean grins, straightening. “Got a system. Crowley taught us when we started with the troupe so we could pick up whatever new songs we came across in our travels. I focus on the first and second verses and concentrate on remembering them. Sammy does the second and third and Ash or whoever else is with us takes some too so we all overlap and only have two verses to worry about at a time. Sammy’s memory is so damn good, he can usually catch three verses.”

 

“But how did you know it would be a song worth learning?”

 

“Are you kidding?” Dean laughs softly. “A poet from the royal court paying tribute to one of his own? Figured it had to be worth remembering. Not that that matters. Always gotta be ready in this kind of life, you know? Be able to deliver the best songs, the newest stories. Our livelihood depends on it.”

 

Castiel’s brow furrows as he looks at Dean—really looks at him. 

 

The carefree guise the revelers wear when they dazzle the court—it’s all crafted. Forged out of want and necessity. Beneath it, there’s a quiet constant calculation— stay sharp, stay useful, stay fed.

 

His chest tightens. The sheer necessity of it all… it overwhelms him.

 

To live like this—always vigilant. Always scraping, always performing. Always wearing a mask of ease—forcing your body to move with grace, even when it aches—because the part you play depends on it.

 

He looks away for a moment, ashamed of how much he’s taken for granted.

 

“Anyway,” Dean continues, “took a while to work it out because I don’t know Occitan—just imitated the sounds, as best we could. Probably sounded like nonsense for a while, but Rowena helped. We sang it to her and she picked out the words from the sounds and made sense of it.  She knows some Occitan. Knows a lot of strange things, Rowena does. She’s the one who explained the meaning. It’s even more beautiful now that I know what it means.”

 

“That’s…ingenious, Dean,” Castiel tells him, truly impressed. “You make it look so effortless. You and the troupe. I don’t think people really appreciate the ingenuity and effort—the precision it takes to do what you all do.”

 

Dean huffs a laugh and shrugs, but a pleased blush rises on his cheeks and he ducks to hide it. 

 

They’ve stopped. 

 

Castiel’s own breath is coming in puffs. His lips are chapped, his hands frozen, and yet he’d stay here talking with Dean all night if he could. 

 

Dean huffs a laugh, blush still warm on his cheeks as they stand at the threshold of the draft-riddled shack the troupe calls home.

 

“Well,” he says, breath curling in the cold. “Guess we’re here.”

 

Castiel doesn’t answer right away. The words sit on his tongue, but none of them are enough.

 

Dean glances over, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks for walking with me, Cas. I like talking with you, sometimes.” 

 

“I like talking with you too, Dean.” Castiel swallows. He should say goodnight, but his feet are like lead in his boots. Their frosted breath curls and mingles in the air.

 

“Still, didn’t have to though, you know? I can take care of myself. Been doing it all my life. It’s not like I’m some damsel in distress.” 

 

As Dean deflects, his smile lingers, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There's a quiet resignation there that stirs the ache in Castiel’s chest. Dean doesn’t think he deserves to be cared for.  Always self–reliant, self—sufficient. Always dismissive of his own needs while tending to the needs of others. Always….alone.

 

“I know you’re not,” Castiel says quietly. 

 

Dean’s grin falters…the mask of ease slipping for once, and Castiel wants more than anything to kiss the boy behind it. 

 

“I know you can take care of yourself,” he says gently instead. “But…just for once, let someone else have the honor of caring for you too.”

 

Dean stills. Whatever spark lived behind his eyes a moment ago is gone now, replaced with something softer. Guarded. Wondering. He doesn’t speak.

 

Castiel’s hand curls at his side. The space between them feels charged—fragile and thick with the weight of everything he wishes he could say to Dean…everything he wishes they could have.

 

He wants to reach out and place a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder. Lay a soft kiss on Dean’s bruised cheek.

 

He wants to follow his heart and stay.

 

Just stay.

 

But that’s not why he saw Dean home. Not why he did this. So instead he draws in a slow breath and steps back—just one step, but it feels like a mile.

 

“Good night, Dean,” he says. His voice is steady, but inside he’s unraveling with want.

 

Dean’s lips part, as if to call him back—but whatever he was going to say slips away with the frost of his breath in the air.

 

Castiel turns. His boots crunch softly in the snow.

 

“Cas?”

 

He stops and turns—his heart in his throat.

 

“Yes, Dean?”

 

Dean’s staring, lips parted on the verge of something he can’t seem to say. “Uh—Gadreel,” he says finally. “Don’t forget about Gadreel.”

 

Castiel looks down at his feet, suppressing a smile, before meeting Dean’s gaze.

 

“It was never really about Gadreel, Dean.”

 

Dean’s eyes flick wider and with a soft smile, Castiel turns back toward the manor. Toward his own bed — the snow crunching beneath his feet as he goes.

 

He’s done what he’s set out to.

 

Dean is home.

 

Dean is safe— and that kindles a warmth in Castiel's chest no winter winds can touch. 

 

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Notes:

Thank you to all who have left kudos and amazingly supportive comments! I really appreciate them! Hope you like Castiel's new take-charge attitude! Let me know what you think!

Translations and archaic stuff:
Amours nous fait tous fols. - Love makes fools of us all.
Sapientia sine amore nihil est. - Wisdom without love is nothing.
Deus te adiuvet, Angelus - May God help you, Angel.
Swive - crude word for sex
Mooncalf - lovestruck fool

Chapter 19: The Seventh Day of Christmas - Part I - Amor semper protegit

Notes:

Thank you for your kudos, for subscribing, for your kind comments, and for your patience! This week was Boston Con which I attended with some wonderful people and that held this up a little. Thank you so much Sarah and Lexi! As always your help is so appreciated!

 

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December 31st 1196

The morning chill creeps in, the last of the firewood having burnt down to ash. The young men of the troupe are sprawled along the floor of the two room shack they’ve been afforded for their quarters. The soft blue light of dawn filters through cracks in the walls, and Dean lazily watches the dust motes as they float in and out of the beams of light, fanning across the room like fingers —  the gentle touch of some celestial being.

For the moment, he’s warm, wrapped in blankets and tucked amongst the bodies of his companions. Sam, the oversized puppy, is taking up more than his fair share of space as usual, his legs sprawled across Dean’s pallet, trapping him under the blanket. 

Dean enjoys this time of day, when the troupe is asleep, and he can sit in the quiet of morning, listening to the sounds of the world waking up. Outside somewhere, the sound of a hammer striking metal rings out. Perhaps the smith is already busy making repairs or crafting some new tool, and closer, the murmur and giggle of a woman’s voice, footsteps hurrying past the shack in the direction of the manor. Most likely a few servants readying themselves for the day. 

In the quiet of the morning, he can imagine it’s the sound of his own forge — that it’s his hammer ringing out in the distance, as he fashions the bridle bits and harness fittings for a contingent of knights — just like his father once did. Dean closes his eyes and pretends the murmurs belong to townsfolk passing by, in a place where he and Sam have finally found home.

Despite the warmth of his bed and the sweetness of the vision, he sits up quietly, wincing slightly with the pain of fresh wounds. He carefully shifts Sammy’s leg out of the way, and stands. His breath puffs in the cold air, as he picks his way quietly through the bodies toward the small chest where Rowena keeps her herbs, tinctures, and salves. With a quick glance toward the far side of the room, where she sleeps on the shack’s only raised bed, he opens the chest and removes a jar of her calendula and honey salve. 

He’s not stealing. The salve is for anyone in the troupe who needs it and is especially soothing on burns. He’d just rather no one else know. 

Jar in hand, he ducks around the side of the hearth for some privacy. He pulls off his tunic, holding it between his knees, and feels for the raw skin on his back where he was burned. He winces as the salve meets the small wound with a sting, but in mere moments it settles into a cool, soothing numbness. He repeats the process with the other two wounds. All in all, he’s lucky. They’re not so deep, and though he can’t see them without a looking glass, it feels as though the skin surrounding the worst of it is no longer as inflamed as it had been the morning after his escape from Alastair’s. 

He silently berates himself for what might be the hundredth time for letting his guard down. Dean had heard of men with appetites like Alastair’s before, but never imagined he’d be so foolish as to end up in the clutches of one. Lesson learned. It would not be repeated. He would be sure to keep his distance and be more careful next time.

Toppling to the ground on his back the day before had caused a searing pain, but it was momentary. He’d ignored the angry scrape of his clothing against his raw skin in favor of focusing on the one thing that’s intrigued him as of late — made him happy even. Castiel — so earnestly trying to right himself and apologize after bowling Dean over, only making things worse as he kneed Dean in the gut. 

Painful, yet certainly forgivable. 

It should have been irritating, Castiel running after him like that, after Dean so clearly told him to leave things alone and stormed away. Dean huffs softly at the memory.

It was irritating.

But it had also been comforting, that Castiel had cared enough to follow.

Sure, Crowley would care, and Rowena too. His little brother would go off and do something stupid if he knew someone had tried to hurt Dean.  Any member of the troupe would. But Castiel was different. Castiel wasn’t his family. He didn’t owe Dean anything. And maybe that’s why it felt different.

They shared no backstory, no obligations to one another. Castiel wasn’t even of the same class. But somehow, inexplicably, he cared about what happened to Dean. He had no mandate to protect a hired court fool who’d gotten himself mixed up with the wrong man, but the fire that burned in Castiel’s eyes when he’d seen the injuries to Dean’s face was like the menacing ire of the wolf that sees its packmate harmed, scenting the blood of the one that harmed him. 

Ready to deal out justice…..

Or vengeance….

Or to tear down the whole world in defense of what is his — and that realization made Dean bristle and bolt, because Castiel looked at him like he mattered, like he was worth bleeding for. And Dean — Dean still can’t understand why. By now Castiel must know what Dean is, and what he does with his nights. 

He’d asked if it was Uriel who'd hurt him. So yes. Castiel knows. And yet Castiel doesn’t treat him like the whore he’s become, but like something precious. Someone worthy of protection, and that’s why Dean lashed out and hurried away. Because part of him wants to be that person to Cas — to bury his head in Castiel’s chest and confess everything, as if Castiel was some avenging angel that could chase devils like Alastair from Dean’s world. Because he likes the idea of Castiel wrapping his arms around him, protecting him — shielding him from the harsh realities of his world. 

Because Castiel is the negation of Dean’s world.

He’s irreality.

Myth.

He’s everything Crowley taught him to profess to their patrons but never be so foolish as to believe in himself. Percival’s self-sacrifice coupled Gawain’s valor — a foolish combination. Ready to take on an enemy, no matter how great, as long as it’s in the service of someone other than himself. 

And Dean is falling for him.  

Hard.

Last evening only served to make matters worse. He dreaded the thought of seeing Lord Alastair in the hall at dinner, and sought a place nearer Castiel and his usual companions. But when the others arrived and Castiel was not among them his heart sank. 

He gazed blankly at the fire as he played his oud, all the while feeling Alastair’s eyes on him from across the room.

But then Castiel came and Dean had someone to fix his smile upon, and when Castiel smiled back, holding Dean’s gaze as if he could see into his soul — into his heart, everything else in the hall — everyone else — faded to nothing.

Castiel’s lips moved as Dean sang, his chin angled toward his companions as he translated Dean’s rough Occitan.

Dean huffs a laugh. Of course Castiel knows Occitan — probably enough to know Dean was making a hash of it — because of all the handsome aristocratic bastards that he could fall for, Dean had to try to impress the one that can see through all of his sappy minstrel bullshit. Bound for the monastery but fluent in troubadour! Heaven must have been drunk off the sacramental wine when they charted Castiel’s path and crossed it with Dean’s.

But hash or no, Castiel’s eyes, soft upon him, never left Dean’s. A smile curved Castiel’s lips as Dean sang for him… to him. And Dean couldn’t help but notice that something was different. 

There was a confidence in Castiel’s bearing last night Dean hadn't seen before —a quiet peace, steady and warm — as if the boy Dean met not a week before was becoming the man he was meant to be — and for one mad moment, Dean let himself pretend he was the reason. Let his stubborn, insubordinate, mule-like self be commanded by him. Dean was never much for obeying the orders of nobles. He did it only out of the necessity of his station. But last night at Castiel’s lighthearted command he felt his heart bound to this man as if with tethers of silk and starlight…. and for once, Dean wanted to be commanded.

He yearned to let go of the overthinking and scrambling and constant hustling — for once to simply please and obey — to trust himself to Castiel.

And when he finally found himself alone in his chambers he stared up into the dark and wondered why and tossed and turned until finally he let himself admit the thing he’d been trying to deny. 

Castiel….is chivalry itself –that ridiculous myth of heroism and goodness woven by people like himself to flatter their patrons with falsehoods. Only with Castiel, it’s not falsehood…it’s not flattery. Castiel is like the songs of Chrétien come to life. Something born from the lips of troubadours.

He treats people with kindness no matter their station. He wrestles knights twice his size to spare a servant’s fingers from the cold. He preserves the modesty of witless kitchen maids who will never think to thank him. He walks a lowly hired fool to his bed, just to make sure he gets there unharmed — Dean is certain of it. Somehow last night, Castiel sensed Dean’s hesitance— Dean’s lingering dread- and saw Dean safely home. 

Fool that Cas is, he believes — in the very thing so often sung about but so rarely seen, it’s more fantasy than code.

In chivalry.

Guess someone had to believe in it. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Dean.

But now? 

Now Cas has him rethinking every faerie story he’s ever heard or told, wondering if one of those creatures too, might manifest themselves before his eyes. With Dean’s luck, it’ll be a boggart or an ogre…

Please, God- don’t let it be an ogre!

 

Even as he thinks it, he chuckles to himself, imagining Cas taking that on too. Both of them standing shoulder to shoulder, swords and daggers in hand as they take on the hunchbacked, gnarled beast. Castiel would stand with him so that Dean wouldn’t have to face it alone.

For just a moment Dean lets himself imagine what it might be like to make a future with Castiel. To thread his fingers through the mess of chestnut waves he’s forever pushing off his brow, to kiss those plush pink lips, feel the warm, slick glide of his tongue. 

If Dean asked him — would he stay? Forget the monastery? Forget familial obligation and run away with him — with or without the troupe?

He shuts his eyes and curses himself, shoving the thought away. 

His life is full of uncertainty and hardship. It’s hunger, toil, and want. 

It’s a cold patch of earth and frostbitten toes in winter. It’s clothing, drenched through with the cold torrents of spring. It’s running from the constable with a hank of stolen bread in the lean times, when there is no work — and pretending to be merry while always pitching, always hustling, stealing food, or selling your body— and Dean could never — not in a million lifetimes wish this life for Castiel. 

Dean should never have goaded him that night in the courtyard. Perhaps it was jealousy that made him do it because back then, despite Dean’s attraction, he’d assumed Castiel was just another aristocrat’s privileged bastard who didn’t know how good he had it. 

But Dean knows better now. Castiel is noble . And unlike so many with pedigrees and bloodlines that give lie to the title, Castiel’s heart is where his nobility is proven. 

And there is no possible world where a gift like Castiel should be wasted on Dean. 

 

So yes — Dean would love to take comfort in him. To be wrapped in his arms. To let Castiel “have the honor” of caring for him, as he put it.

It would be easy — too easy — to find protection there. To find a home in such a man.

But Dean is a protector, too. A survivor.

And if loving Castiel means putting away his own foolish notions—if it means keeping him safe — then so be it. Dean may not have a noble pedigree. He may be a peasant, a fool, and a whore, not to mention three or four other things people haven’t dared say to his face —but he can be loyal.

He can be brave.

He can be unselfish.

For Castiel? He can be all of that and more. 

Dean slips out into the courtyard and makes his way to the manor to sort through the instruments needed for the morning rehearsal of the lady choir. They will have their performance before the court in three days and Rowena wants to introduce another song with drums and other instruments.

 

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An hour later, the women are gathered in the Great Hall, arranging themselves in their appointed places. A few glance coyly at Dean, batting their lashes as he awaits Rowena's command. He smiles and dips his head to them in a courtly fashion. 

The smell of boiled ham and bacon fills the hall, and Dean hears his stomach call out as a few servants arrive with cauldrons of pottage for those who wish to break their nightly fast. Gabriel wanders in, a mug of ale already in hand and sits in a chair near the hearth, feet propped on a nearby table, watching as Rowena adjusts the placement of the various ladies. 

Sam, Andy, and Crowley have joined Dean, readying their instruments for the rehearsal. Crowley is tightening the skin of a second drum while Sam rosins the bow for his rebec and Andy readies a reed whistle. 

“I need to speak with you,” Crowley says in a voice just for Dean. “You will not be engaging your nightly services for the rest of our stay.”

Dean stiffens. “Oh?” he replies shortly. “And why not? You know we nee—”

“We need nothing,” Crowley cuts in. “Thanks to your dulcet strains, which I’ve heard described as one that makes angels weep, a patron of a different sort has decided to endow us with precisely what we need to obtain a modest beast with which to travel.”

Dean turns, eyebrows rising. “Who? How?” he asks with a gasp as he brightens.

“Our benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. Brother Robert can attest that it is true. But the lady is a pious sort, and should word of any…bargains of a sexual nature reach her ears and you can be sure she will withdraw her patronage. And believe me — gossip spreads through this court like crabs through a whorehouse.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, “So you see, any freelancing in that regard and you’ll be the reason your brother leaves here on his feet instead of a cart.”

“But who—”

“Ah ah ah!” Crowley holds aloft a hand, shaking his head. “Anonymous.”

Dean huffs, frustrated, but then warms. He looks to Crowley to again confirm it, even as the smile breaks over his lips, his relief too full to contain inside him.

“Truly?”

“Truly, little songbird,” Crowley smirks. “Your nights are your own. Your honeyed hymns have secured what you most need.”

“Ech hem! We’re ready,” Rowena calls, her voice sing-songingly sweet. “Salve Nos.”

“Softly now,” Crowley says with a nod to Dean’s drum. “Save the thunder for the performance. We wouldn’t want to wake the whole bloody manor now, would we?” 

 

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Castiel descends the stairs to where the soft polyphony of treble voices resonates in the stone chamber of the Great Hall. At the far end, by the dias, Rowena has her women arranged and guides them, keeping the time with a stroke of her hand. It’s a far cry from the beginnings Castiel witnessed a few short days ago.

“And now, ladies, just for a wee bit of blessing, I’ll teach you a plainchant from the late Abbess Hildegard, may her soul be most blessed,” Rowena remarks with a solemn nod. “Listen first, then we’ll try it together.”

“O virtus Sapientiae,O power of Wisdom,

Quae circuiens circuisti,You who encompass all,

Comprehendendo omnia,Encircling and embracing all,

In una via, quae habet vitam, In one path, which gives life,

Sex alas habens:" You have six wings:

 

“Duae in altum volant,Two soar to the heights,

Duae tegit faciem in lumine,Two shield the face in light,

Duae sustinent viam viventem.”Two uphold the living way.

 

He makes his way to Gabriel as Rowena’s voice rises, fluid and clear as a mountain spring. 

“She’s truly remarkable,” Castiel says sitting down next to his brother who watches quietly.

Gabriel takes a sip. “She is.” He picks up an overturned cup and fills it from a jug on the table, passing it to Castiel.

Castiel lets the silence stretch, his eyes falling on Dean who, smiling, waves from the far end of the hall. Castiel smiles and raises his cup, ignoring his brother who suppresses a snort.

“What’s next for her, do you suppose?” Castiel asks, nodding in Rowena’s direction.

Gabriel is quiet a moment. “What do you mean?” he asks finally. 

“You’re not the only one with eyes to see when someone’s heart is stricken. It’s clear you care for her, and she for you. Do you plan to follow her from town to town? Manor to manor?”

Gabriel turns a warning look on his brother but does not answer.

Castiel keeps his voice quiet, gaze fixed on Rowena as she gestures her singers into harmony. “Mud Month’s coming,” he says. “Hard time to be on the road. Cold sets in deep, and every lane turns to mire.” He turns to his brother.

Gabriel shrugs but doesn’t look away from her.

“She’s weathered a lot,” Castiel continues. “And she’s done more than her share of keeping this little band in one piece.” He glances toward Sam, Andy, and the others clustered near the hearth. “They don’t always see it. But they follow her. Trust her. With…” He hesitates but lets the word come softly. “With a mother’s heart.”

Gabriel turns and glares at him silently before turning back to his ale. He takes a sip, his gaze resting on Rowena again.

“I wonder what she’d do if she had a place to set down roots. Amazing things, I’d imagine. Wonderful things — born of love,” Castiel says, still watching the hall, “if someone offered her one, I suppose,” Castiel adds, tone light but sincere. “You don’t need blood to make a kind of family.”

He lets the weight of the words sit in the warmth of the Yule fire blazing behind them.

“Tread carefully, Moppet.” 

Castiel doesn’t look at Gabriel, but he doesn’t need to, to know his point has been made. 

“You’re about as subtle as a battering ram.”

“And you vowed to refrain from calling me that,” Castiel huffs. 

“Well, I see I’m interrupting a moment of brotherly bonding,” Brother Robert quips as he pulls up a chair and pours himself an ale. 

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Saint Æthelthryth, preserve me from the sermonizing of lovesick puppies and insufferable monks.”

“Now, now –” Bobby says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m just here for the ale.”

They fall into a companionable quiet as Rowena raises her hand once more. The choir resumes, the treble voices twining through the air like threads of silver through a tapestry. For a while, the men simply listen — three quiet figures at the edge of the hall, warmed by the fire and the glow of a quiet companionship that transcends the rifts between them. 

When the piece draws to a close, a hush settles over the hall — like the last exhale after prayer. Rowena offers her singers a pleased nod, and the women exchange hushed smiles before turning, each of them in a different direction, whether toward breakfast, or leisure, or work.

At the far end of the room, Sam, Dean, and Andy set aside their instruments, murmuring among themselves. After a glance between them, Dean and Sam make their way across the hall — slow and cautious — unsure of whether their approach would be seen as presumptuous, or welcome among the de Devin men.

When Dean hesitates, Castiel straightens and smiles.

“Dean,” he says, standing, gesturing to a nearby chair. “Sam,” he nods. “Come! Join us.”

Dean’s gaze lingers on him a moment before he smiles and crosses the rest of the distance sinking into the chair next to his brother.

Castiel doesn’t look at him again right away — just passes the jug of ale, eyes on their hands as he bites back a smile and his cheeks flush.

“My God, Boy, if you smile any harder, your face is gonna crack. Pass the damn ale before you start farting poetry,” Bobby grumps.

Castiel scowls at the monk as Dean turns scarlet and Sam snorts so hard some ale shoots out his nose. Gabriel’s grinning again though — which Castiel supposes counts for something.

Sam wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve, still wheezing a little as he sets down his mug. 

“Well, at least you’re looking better, Boy,” Bobby says, eyeing Sam.

“I’m told I owe my thanks to you Brother Robert. You, Rowena and Master Castiel,” he adds, meeting Castiel’s eyes with a thankful smile.

“It’s…just Castiel,” he glances at Dean, “or Cas,” he smiles, thinking of the nickname Dean gave him. “I’m no one's master. And it was Brother– Bobby,” he corrects at Bobby’s almost glare, “who told me what to do.”

“Where’d you learn it from?” Sam asks, turning fascinated eyes on Bobby. “Rowena said she’d never seen such medicine before— and Rowena knows just about everything.”

Bobby leans back in his chair with a grunt, rubbing a hand over his almost-beard. “Well. That’s a tale longer than this mug is deep.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “We’ve got time.”

Bobby snorts. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Wasn’t exactly a peaceful apprenticeship.”

He shifts in his seat, tone sobering a notch.

“It was at the siege of Acre. Gabriel’ll tell you I got taken a few months in, me and a few other knights. I had a bit of skill — could stitch a man up if needed, so I asked, and the Saracens let me tend to a few of the men who’d been taken along with me.” Bobby gazes at his hands as if recalling the feel of the needle on his fingertips, as if seeing the rot of rank wounds. “Some of the men, they had wounds that were festering — despite what the priests say, prayer doesn’t do a whole lot once the skin turns black. Still, I did what I could for them. Mostly praying we’d all make it through the day.”

Gabriel runs his finger along the rim of his cup, gazing into its contents as if lost in some memory, but Castiel, Dean and Sam sit forward with rapt attention. 

“Had my own wound, raw and angry too. Most nights I laid down my head thinking I’d be dead by morning,” Bobby continues. “But by the good Lord’s mercy, I lived. Some time later— a bunch of wounded came in. Saracen knights — more than the physicks could handle at once. One of them noticed I’d known a little doctoring so pulled me into his service with the promise of giving our knights a second look after we’d finished with theirs.”

Castiel glances at him now, brows slightly raised.

Bobby shrugs. “Showed me some of their ways. Said I had a careful hand. The rest I learned over the months that followed. Herbs, surgery, stuff that’d make a Western physick turn green.”

Dean whistles low under his breath.

Bobby just grunts again. “Not all learning comes from monks and scrolls, boys. Sometimes you gotta get captured to get a worldly education.”

He squints at Dean for a second longer, then tilts his head. “Do I know you from somewhere, boy?”

Dean blinks. “Don’t think so.”

“You sure? We ain’t met?” Bobby looks from Dean to Sam and back again. “You an’ your brother look awful familiar.”

“Not unless you make the circuit of wine-soaked revels like Gabriel here,” Dean smirks.

“Watch it, Deano. You may be taller than me but I can drain a tankard of ale with my right hand and best you at sword play with my left.”

“Gabriel was always the talented one of our family,” Castiel teases.

“Must just have one of those faces I guess,” Bobby mutters.

Dean flashes a bright grin. “Yeah, the devastatingly charming kind. Comes with its burdens.”

“More like the full-of-horseshit kind mothers warn their daughters about,” Sam teases, bumping against Dean’s shoulder and making him spill some of his ale.

“Hey! Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Sammy,” he says, flicking the spilled ale on his fingers at Sam’s face.

Castiel can’t help but grin, admiring the affection that bleeds through their teasing. 

Bobby just snorts into his mug, shaking his head. “Lord, save us.”

Sam settles, turning his attention back to Bobby. “So when you were captured, you learned their medicine?” 

At Bobby’s affirming nod his eyes widen. “Things Christians don’t know? What?... Surgery? And how to treat men with herbs we don’t even have here?”

Bobby chuckles. “Slow down, boy. I didn’t say I was Avicenna himself.”

“Who’s Avicenna?” Dean asks.

Sam leans forward. “A Persian physick. He was supposedly brilliant. He wrote about just about every known ailment.”

Dean snorts. “Must be good if he knows things Rowena don’t.”

Bobby shrugs. “Can’t know about what you’ve never heard of. They’ve got flowers and weeds in the east that can’t take root here in the north. But if you know what to ask for there’s some traders who can sometimes get you what you need. Other than that, it takes study and dedication. One man’s medicine could be another man’s poison.”

He takes a long pull from his mug before nodding toward Castiel. “That’s what you’ll be learning, when we get to the priory. When you're not teaching the younglings reading and writing, that is. I need a sharp apprentice who can work in the herb gardens and pick up what I can teach.”

Castiel blinks like he’s just been stirred from a dream. He nods faintly. “Yes. Of course.”

Sam practically lights up. “That would be incredible. To see it. To know that kind of healing — to help people that way…” He shakes his head, looking a little awestruck. “You’re really lucky, Castiel.”

“Yes,” Castiel smiles quietly before taking another sip of his drink. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, though for some reason he can’t bring himself to look up from his ale.

Gabriel lifts his mug with a dry grin. “To Brother Cassie, future monk, healer of men, and terror of garden weeds everywhere. May your patients survive your gentle bedside manner.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of confidence,” Gabriel smirks. “Just not all of it’s in you .”

Dean snorts into his mug, and Sam grins. 

Even Bobby chuckles. “Don’t listen to him,” he says with a shrug. “Man mocks what he can’t stomach.”

Gabriel presses a hand to his chest in feigning offense. “Wounded. Truly. But on that note, I’ve a rendezvous with a redhead to keep.”

He rises, brushes a bit of dust from his tunic, and lifts his mug in farewell. “Enjoy your plants and potions, boys. Try not to put each other to sleep with the riveting conversation.”

Gabriel and Rowena leave together. Castiel and the others all watch them go. 

There are more people arriving in the hall now. Some of them spoon out pottage for themselves, others just pouring a morning ale and enjoying each other’s company. Castiel spots Michael with a large tankard of ale relaxing with a few other knights. Balthazar and Benny among them.

Finally, Bobby leans back in his chair, eyeing Castiel with a speculative look. “So?” he asks casually, sipping from his mug. “You have any luck yet?”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the ale in his cup, watching the foam curl along the rim.

“Maybe,” he says finally, voice soft. “It’s going to take time. I told you that.”

Sam glances between them, confused. “Luck with what?”

“Sammy,” Dean mutters in warning. He shakes his head but doesn’t look up from his drink.

Bobby only grunts. “That’s what I thought. I wrote to the Priory, letting 'em know we’d be returning there after Yule, and letting 'em know your ‘terms’ as you put it. I reckon that’ll buy you a little more time, but come Lent, if this thing’s not sorted, the Priory will likely hold Gabriel in breach of contract.”

He downs the rest of his ale, wiping the froth from his lips with the back of his hand. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, looking back to Castiel, “I’ve promised your father a decoction to help with his stomach and a kitchen maid who keeps misplacing my mortar. Once you're done nursing on that ale come find me. We’ll look into the manor’s supplies and brew up a few tinctures to help these folks through the wet season.” He rises with a soft groan and shuffles off toward the far end of the hall, leaving the boys behind in the warmth of the fire.

Castiel nods, but his stomach churns as he wonders how on earth he can get Gabriel to see reason.

“You alright, Cas?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks up. “I’m fine,” he smiles softly.

“You two!” Crowley shouts from across the hall. “We're not getting paid to sit around and sip ale. Sam, grab that rebec. There’s ladies in the weaving room craving a tune to stitch by — and a smiling young lad to bring it to them.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but smiles as he jumps up to grab his rebec, as Crowley orders Dean to meet him in the storage room to prepare some equipment. 

“Coming, Darling,” Dean calls, mimicking Crowley’s usual drawl.

Dean sighs heavily. “Well, guess that means I’m off again. Maybe I’ll see you around later.”

He says it casually but Castiel detects a hopefulness in Dean’s eyes that makes his heart stutter. 

“That would be nice,” he smiles, and is rewarded when Dean beams back at him. 

Dean’s expression shifts suddenly. “Hey, I wanted to ask you. Now that Sammy’s doing better, I find I can’t stop thinking about that village. Do you think your father might—”

“I already asked him,” Castiel sighs, shaking his head. He’s sure Dean can read the defeat on his face.

“No?” Dean huffs, “Did you tell them they’re starving? That girl — I thought she was a wraith at first.”

“I know,” Castiel swallows, feeling somehow like a failure to the village…like a failure to Dean. “I told him everything, but the most he would promise was to send Michael or someone to check there and bring some relief after Yule.”

Dean’s eyes flick to where Michael sits laughing with his companions before leaning in, meeting Castiel’s eyes with a pointed look, “They won’t make it that long, Cas.”

“Dean I–”

“Winchester!” Crowley yells, making them jump. “Sometime before the next new moon!”

“Coming!” Dean calls, rolling his eyes as he stands. “Gotta go.”

“Dean, wait!”

But his voice gets lost in the rising hum of the hall as more and more people arrive to quench their thirst and slake their hunger. Any appetite Castiel had is lost with the thought of the people of Lowfield, suffering in the cold with empty bellies. 

He rises, downing the dregs of his ale and heading out to find Brother Robert. If he can’t prevail upon his father to act sooner, at least he can help the monk make whatever medicines will see the servants here through the season of illness.

 

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It’s evening by the time Bobby releases him from his work. Castiel has distilled, chopped, crushed, dried, steeped and pulverized more herbs than he thought was possible and when the kitchen stores came up short of some of the necessary roots for Bobby’s brews they scoured the woods for any sign of the plants that might be hidden under the frosted earth. 

By the time evening falls he’s grateful for the cup of warm spiced wine that greets him when he joins Samandriel, Harry, and Ed at their usual table.

Castiel looks around the hall spotting the various musicians from the troupe, but Dean is not among them. The concern for Dean’s safety has Castiel preoccupied. He barely has any recollection of the dinner conversation by the time the last course is served.

 

The revels begin early this evening, a special concession for the children of the manor on the last night of the year.

The last course is cleared. Servants and players busy themselves with the movement of tables and benches and within moments the Great Hall is transformed.

The Yule fire glows low, smaller by half what it was the first night of the revels. Fresh torches cast long shadows across the flagstones near the dias, while those in the rest of the hall have been snuffed. The air smells of woodsmoke, damp wool, and fresh juniper boughs brought in from the forest to refresh those that have withered since the start of the season. 

A hush of anticipation hangs over the room.

The front rows fill quickly—children first, chattering excitedly, already half-believing in miracles. Nobles follow, slower, more skeptical. 

Castiel makes to slip in near his friends but with a hand on his back Gabriel guides him to the front. 

“Gabriel, what are you doing?” he huffs as Gabriel pushes him to sit in the front near the edge and shoves two mugs of ale into his hands. 

“I need someone to guard my ale while I’m working, Cassie. And I don’t trust Balthazar not to drink all of it.

Castiel lifts one of the cups to take a sip and Gabriel catches his hand. 

“What part of ‘guard my ale’ did you not understand?” 

Castiel huffs through his nose as Gabriel turns away, but before he can respond, a tug comes at his sleeve.

He looks down.

Raphael. Straight-backed and grave-eyed, his little boots scuffed at the toe and his brow creased with concentration.

“Is it true they use real magic?” the boy asks. “Uncle Gabriel said mistress Rowena once made a hedgehog appear out of thin air.”

“I want a hedgehog!” Another voice squeaks. “Papa! Can I have a hedgehog?” 

Matthias grips his father’s hand as Michael gives him a bewildering look, then looks over, inadvertently catching Castiel’s eyes. It’s an awkwardly human moment for his rigid gyrfalcon of a brother, but Michael looks back to his son, explaining that hedgehogs belong in the forest, before gesturing for Matthias to sit next to his brother and taking a seat on the other side. 

“What do you think, Uncle Castiel?”

Castiel has forgotten the question. It’s the first time in years he and Michael were sat in such close proximity — his son now looking to him for an answer.

 “Uh…magic, yes. Right. Some of it is perhaps real. And some only seems real. That is a kind of magic, too if you think about it,” he says, smiling down at Raphael.

Raphael nods solemnly and turns his attention to the dias as Gabriel calls for everyone to quiet down.

 

“My lords, my ladies, young squires and young princesses,” Gabriel exclaims. “Tonight we honor the ancient wisdom of the mysterious Merlin, that most cunning of conjurers. You will see wonders. You will see deceptions. The astute among you will recognize the difference—”

He pauses, smiling. “So now, without further delay I give you your Master of Revels, Crowley!

“Let the Revels begin.”

Gabriel returns to his seat grabbing both cups of ale from Castiel as Crowley strides in with a sweep of his dark cloak and bow more mocking than respectful.

“We must of course start by bringing the flame of the great Merlin’s knowledge here to this manor.” Crowley says, taking a few steps toward Raphael and Matthias, and leans down in front of Michael’s children, his voice gritty and low. 

“Hello boys,” he smiles. “Want to see a magic trick?”

They go still, then blink at him exchanging a quick glance at one another. Then slowly each of them nods. 

Crowley lifts one hand, splaying his fingers. 

He waves the other hand over them quickly and snaps.

The children gasp and Castiel’s own eyes widen as a flame springs from the top of Crowly’s finger. It dances, real and bright, casting flickers of warm red light over Crowley’s grin.

“Fire of the Fae,” Crowley says with mock gravity. “The key to harnessing the power of Merlin’s magic.”

He lowers his hand slowly... and then, with a flourish and flick of his wrist, it disappears.

“Now don’t try that on your own, mind you,” he adds looking pointedly at each of the gathered children, and glides away like smoke. “I’ve apprenticed for years to learn the secret of Merlin’s wonders.”

Crowley brings out Ash, who holds aloft a large coin. He steps closer to the children. They ooh and ahh as Ash nimbly twirls it from finger to finger, hand to hand.  

“Merlin the wise,” Crowley intones from the shadows, “once advised King Arthur that the world is never as solid as it seems. That which we cling to may vanish in the turning of a hand.”

With a quick turn of Ash’s hand the coin disappears to the amazement of children and adults alike. With a jingling sound Ash looks up into the air as if searching for the missing coin, but then, hands moving fast as lightning, coins begin appearing in his fingers as if pulled from the air. 

Left and right, high and low —- Ash approaches a rosy cheeked child, her eyes filled with wonder as he seemingly pulls a coin from her ear. She giggles as he hands it to her. Another each for Raphael and Matthias, another for the child of a servant —- coin after coin until each giggling child has their own to treasure. 

One of the kitchen boys gasps so loudly as Ash throws him a coin that the whole company laughs. Even Gabriel chuckles under his breath. Castiel wonders how the troupe can afford it until he sees Raphael’s up close. Not a real coin at all — a circle of tin, stamped with the emblem of a bird of prey — a merlin. 

Castiel smiles at the ingenuity of the troop. Children squeal, hands in the air as coins continue to appear in a dizzying flurry. A roar of laughter erupts from some of the knights as they too are tossed and reach out for the simple treasure. 

Finally, the treasure runs out and Ash takes a bow as the crowd roars with cheers and applause. 

Crowley waltzes in front of the assembly again.

“Merlin said, ‘What is broken may yet be mended—but never as it was. The beauty is in the scar which tells of the sacrifice. The strength is in the mend, because two become one whole.” 

He exits as Andy and Garth take the stage. Garth holds a long white silk, and lifts it high for all to see, showing the front and the back of it, before holding it taut before Andy.

With a slow, ceremonial gesture, Andy draws a dagger and slices the silk cleanly down the middle

A hush ripples through the room as they watch for what comes next.

The two players knot the ribbon back together, but the knot is crude and bulky —-a mar on the delicate fabric. Then, in silence, Garth lifts the knot and kisses it, holding it out toward Andy who waves the knife over it with a flourish and the knot dissolves before everyone’s eyes.

When they draw the silk taut again, it is whole.

But not the same.

Down the center is a new design — a green vine weaves itself around vibrant blue flowers, outlined in gold thread. 

A gasp from the crowd. Then applause.

“Just as the silk is no longer what it was, but something stronger —more beautiful for what it has endured, so the bonds among men may be restored and strengthened in time.”

Applause follows, polite but sincere. Children clap with abandon. Even Michael manages a slight smile as he watches his eldest beaming.

“I think I know how they did that,” Raphael whispers.

“So do I,” Castiel replies softly. “The ghost of Merlin must be here in the Great Hall.”

Raphael’s eyes widen on Castiel who stares back, his own eyes wide, before breaking into a smile and ruffling Raphael’s hair as Gabriel once did him. Raphael laughs, but Castiel freezes realizing what he’s done as his gaze drifts up to Raphael’s father. Michael turns his attention back to the players without comment. 

Several more acts follow, sleight of hand and some things more amazing still that leave Castiel wondering how it was done.

 

Finally Crowley announces it’s time for the final act.

The stage is cleared. Garth and Sam roll forward a great wooden wheel—tall, reinforced, with iron at the rim. It creaks ominously as they set it upright. The audience murmurs in curiosity.

“And now,” Crowley announces, “a final truth from Merlin. Bravery and foolishness are twins—raised in the same cradle.”

“To demonstrate this final truth I call upon the bravest young fool of our troop! Dean of Winchester!”

From the side of the hall, Dean emerges to the applause of several members of the company, Castiel included. He feels a stab of jealousy inside him when Dean smiles at two servant girls cheering him on in a near swoon.  

Dean wears loose black trousers and a green linen shirt —sleeves rolled to the elbow. The firelight catches on the sweat at his temples. He bows low, to the servant girls in the front row. 

“Don’t try this at home,” he grins. 

Castiel sits up, eyes narrowing on the wheel as Dean steps up to it. Sam appears and straps him in, murmuring instructions under his breath. Castiel can’t hear the words, but he sees the tension in Dean’s jaw. The little flex of fingers before they’re pinned in place.

Crowley steps forward with the first knife.

He turns to the audience.

“Tonight, you shall see a man risk death while smiling. The question is — is it bravery? Foolishness?” Or something else that makes him risk the knives?”

The crowd gasps as Sam spins the wheel and disappears off stage.

Castiel’s hands ball up into fists at his sides as Crowley takes his place on the other end of the stage. 

“Relax, Cassie,” Gabriel assures. “Crowley’s aim is excellent.”

The first knife flies, missing the wheel completely and making a loud clatter against the stone wall. 

Gabriel shrugs at Castiel’s livid glare and the crowd gasps. 

“Sorry!” Crowley clears his throat. “Didn’t get a chance to warm up. Ready now.”

Crowley raises his knives and throws them in quick succession. Castiel sucks in a breath. He tenses, sitting straight as an arrow as with a thud, thud, thud, thud, the knives pierce the wood of the wheel near Dean’s left shoulder, left thigh, right thigh then right shoulder. The crowd bursts into applause and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. 

 

Dean is unscathed.

 

The applause dies down and Crowley turns to the audience again. “Thank you my dear lords and ladies. Now that I’m warmed up we can begin. Samuel,” Crowley nods. 

 

“What?” Castiel blurts aloud. He can’t breathe. It’s only when Gabriel grips his arm to stay him that he realizes he’s rising out of his seat to put a stop to this insanity. 

“Let Dean do his job,” Gabriel warns. 

“His job??” Castiel glares. Gabriel only winks at him in return. He lowers himself back down but grips the edge of the bench beneath him with white knuckles.

Sam retrieves the knives for Crowley, then spins the wheel even faster as Crowley ties a blindfold over his eyes. 

Without warning and in quick succession the blades hit. 

 

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! 

 

Sam returns to slow the wheel revealing that Dean is once again unscathed, three of the knives making an arc from both of his  shoulders, to the top of his head. The fourth between his legs, just shy of—- well, several knights utter sympathetic groans at the thought of it going any higher.

Dean is still smiling—but his chest rises too quickly. His hands tremble slightly as Sam unbuckles the straps.

The hall erupts in applause.

Crowley bows, not to the room, but to Dean.

“Ladies and lords, we thank you for allowing us to share the wise words of Merlin the Great!” he says, sweeping his cloak, “Our revels for this evening are concluded. You may breathe again.”

The hall once again erupts into applause but Castiel does not clap. He stands slowly, drawing breath as if surfacing from deep water. He stares over at Dean, his limbs shaky, as though the blood has been drawn from them.

Gabriel leaps to the dias. “A moment everyone, if you please!” he shouts as the crowd settles and stills. 

“Tomorrow will mark the Eighth Day of Christmas and the first of the new year. And as this is a time of undoing — a time when God reminds us the first shall be last and the last first, tomorrow we knights and ladies shall provide the revels to honor our gracious and talented troupe. I call upon Sir Michael. Join me brother.”

Michael scowls in his seat but pastes on a grim smile and stands as the hall erupts in cheers and his boys look to him with excitement. 

Michael stands side by side with Gabriel. “Tell me brother, what would you have the court enjoy?”

Michael’s mouth opens and closes more than once, as the buzzing questions of the hall rises. He swallows. “Tournaments.”

Gabriel groans, “Come now brother. You give yourself, a trained knight, the advantage here.”

“Not for the knights!” Michael amends quickly. “If it’s inversion you wish then the knights will facilitate the games, lend their mounts, and judge the winners.” 

Michael pauses to smile at Raphael and Matthias who are both perched with wide eyes on the edge of their seats. “But it's the children, ladies, players, and servants who have the chance to show their mettle. Riding games, tests of aim and agility, of daring and speed. A proper show of skill.”

Raphael smiles from ear to ear. Mattias jumps up in excitement, and excited banter rises from amongst the courtiers. 

Gabriel claps him on the back. “There you have it! Tomorrow, the players and children shall best the knights, and the ladies shall show us all how to ride with style.”

Laughter breaks out across the room and Michael steps down to retrieve his boys. Gabriel follows. Castiel sees several of the players with broad smiles, anticipating an extraordinary day. 

Raphael tugs at Castiel’s sleeve again.

“Good night, Castiel,” the boy says, looking a bit sulky. “Good night, uncle Gabriel. Father says it’s bedtime.”

“Goodnight, Raphael,” Castiel nods, “Matthias.” 

“Goodnight, boys,” Gabriel adds.

 

Castiel walks away before he says more —before he stalks after Dean and says something  he’ll later regret.. His heart is still reeling from Dean’s near brush with death. The air in the hall feels stifling and thick. He makes his way toward the gate to the courtyard for some air but stops short at the site of a pitcher of ale set at the end of one of the tables. Castiel pours himself a cup and drinks it down like a desperate man.

He slips from the hall and through the wicket gate, into the frigid night air. The sounds of banter and lingering laughter muffle behind him. The air is cold, stinging his lungs but at least it’s given him something to feel besides panic. He paces the courtyard, the image of Dean bound to the wheel, blades flying, still fresh in his mind. 

 

Castiel grits his teeth while inwardly his mind screams, ‘Why?!’

He looks back at the wicket gate where the sound of half drunken merriment bleeds out into the courtyard and wants to grab Dean by the shoulders and shake him for letting himself be used as a target like that.

Why? he wonders again. 

All in the name of another man’s wonder and entertainment?

Doesn’t Dean know he’s precious? 

Castiel takes a breath, willing his thoughts to slow down along with his raging heart. It has to be some trick— some illusion…right?

Dean wouldn’t risk himself like that, would he? Would Crowley or the troupe be so cold as to risk Dean’s life for the sake of some revels? 

Castiel wants to know. 

He needs to know! 

He turns back toward the hall to seek Dean out. By now the excitement of the crowd has dimmed to a steady buzz. Some of the players are beginning to pack away their props. Two play a wood pipe and drum for those who still wish to sit and drink. Most of the children have been carried off to bed. 

On the far end of the hall in a darkened corner Castiel sees Dean, caught at the edge of the room. His back is to the wall, as Lord Zachariah leans in close— too close for Castiel’s liking. The man’s posture is friendly, but his eyes are calculating, his smile too precise.

Dean shifts. His smile falters and he nods. He looks past Zachariah, eyes hopeful as they meet Castiel’s.

Castiel starts toward them, ready to intervene, but Crowley appears suddenly as if materializing from the very shadows of the hall. 

"Winchester! Don’t vanish. I need you to move props. Go find your brother and help Ash disassemble that wheel.” 

Dean laughs awkwardly, slipping sideways from Zachariah with a bow. "Sorry, my lord,” he shrugs with a grin. “Guess duty calls."

“Hey Cas!” Dean smiles faintly, walking backward toward the dias. 

"Winchester!" Ash barks from the far side of the hall, making Dean jump and turn. Ash gestures for him to hurry up. Dean turns back sheepishly. "Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says with a sigh before turning to join Ash.. 

"Dean, wait!" Castiel calls, but the noise of raucous laughter from a group of knights a few feet away swallows the sound of his voice. 

Dean is already gone, following Ash through the side door to help break down their equipment.

Castiel halts, half-disappointed, half-relieved now that Dean is no longer a target for knives and out of Zachariah’s grip. 

He looks over to where the scabby old lord is now bending Crowley’s ear in some private exchange. He can’t hear what they’re saying above the noise of the hall, but Crowley shakes his head minutely in response before Zachariah turns and storms off.

Castiel quickly moves to join Crowley. 

“Relax, angel,” the revel master says at Castiel’s approach. “Our deal is still on if that’s what you want to know. I told Lord Zachariah to go bugger off with someone else,” he flicks his eyes heavenward. “More or less.”

Castiel’s cheeks heat, incensed that Zachariah had tried to buy Dean like some merchandise, yet feeling guilty at his own secretive intrusions on Dean’s circumstances without his knowledge.  “I— I only wanted to know how the knife trick was done,” he lies. Well…it’s only a half lie. He does want to know. 

“Why?” Crowley smirks. “Fancy a spin?”

“Crowley!” he growls. 

“Trade secrets I’m afraid. But I can assure you Dean was never in any danger.”

Castiel huffs.

“You have my word, Angel,” Crowley nods, “Believe it or not, you’re not the only one concerned for his welfare. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend to.” 

Castiel watches him go as Samandriel appears at his side.

"Hey Castiel. Come drink with us," Samandriel urges, voice light as he bumps his shoulder.. "Your friend Jo found the good wine."

Castiel hesitates. He looks over toward the side door, beyond which Dean, and the others are busy breaking down some of their props. 

He wants to speak longer with Dean…but to what end? 

Samandriel has been a good friend. He should spend more time with him and the others now that he has his own room in the manor.

With a forced smile he turns back to Samandriel who motions for him to follow. Back in the room off the kitchen, Jo sits with Ed, Harry, Samandriel and Lady Abigail. Castiel sits as they pass around a jug of spiced wine all the while coaching the young women on the finer aspects of tournament games in anticipation of the next day.

He tries to relax into the conversation, but his mind is still on Dean.

Later, after most of the group has fallen asleep, Jo slips away to walk Abigail back to the guest wing, he too slips away with the quiet excuse of checking on Gwenhwyfar.

 

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The kitchen is dim, lit only by the coals still glowing in the great hearth. He heads for the side door to the courtyard but stops cold at a thudding sound behind him. 

“Who’s there?” he calls out. 

In the ensuing silence he grabs a candlestick from the mantle and lights it in the coals of the hearth. Cautiously he checks the room but finds nothing… no one.  

Perhaps it was a mouse that knocked something over…or one of the cats.

Castiel releases a breath — long and slow. He continues to the side door but stops when he hears a shuffling to his right..

The larder.

He has not checked it. 

“Hello?” he calls. 

He enters, hoping to find nothing. 

Instead, he finds Dean, kneeling in the larder, a sack in his hands.

"Dean?"

Dean freezes. "Cas."

Castiel eyes the sack, it’s half full with bread, cheese, apples.

"What are you doing?"

Dean sighs, but he doesn’t look up. "Stealing."

Silence stretches.

Castiel steps closer, slowly, he huffs, "What?...Dean, what do you mean stealing? Why? If you’re hungry, just say so and I will bring you extra food."

Dean looks down at the sack in his arms. “Not me…” he says then looks back at Castiel. His voice is quiet.

"The people of Lowfield— they can't wait."

Castiel frowns. "But my father said he would—"

“Send someone after Yule. I know.” Dean huffs — not quite a laugh. “Rowena says there’s a storm coming, Cas. And some of those kids…” He swallows. “I know the look of that girl we saw. They don’t have that long.”

He shifts the sack in his arms. “So….I’m stealing. Guess I’m stealing from your family.”

At last, he looks up. “Jokes on me I guess, huh? Told you I was clumsy. Grabbed one apple off the pile and the damn things fell everywhere,” he huffs but looks away. “So…” Dean’s voice is steady now —low and clear.  “Are you gonna turn me in, Cas?”

He can’t find his voice, and in the flickering glow of the candle the silence stretches, perhaps a moment too long.

Dean nods to himself, “I get it…please…don’t take it out on the others…I’ll pack..I’ll— I’ll leave.”

Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, needing Dean to see him, his voice soft but urgent, “ Dean… Dean.”

Dean looks up slowly as if fearing to meet his gaze. His green eyes are tired — burdened. 

Castiel swallows.

“No.”

Dean frowns, uncertain as he kneels in the dust of the dark larder.

“Please, Cas—”

“Shhh! Dean, listen!” Castiel glances toward the kitchen, heart pounding — in part from the fear of someone walking in, but more from the soft crinkle that’s formed between Dean’s eyes. From the way Dean looks at him — full lips parted in wonder.

In the dim candlelight, he shakes his head and kneels.

“I’m not turning you in,” he says quickly. Reaching out, he grabs an apple from the floor. Castiel tucks it into the sack, then another, then another.

“Cas?”

“I’m not turning you in, Dean” Castiel repeats softly. “But…” He swallows. “I’m not letting you go either.” He reaches for another apple in the dark — and instead finds fingers. 

Dean’s fingers. 

Cold against Castiel’s palm. Hardworking, calloused fingers — deserving of so much more warmth than this life has afforded him.

Castiel goes still, his own hand trembling. He wants to take Dean’s hands between both of his and warm them — but he doesn’t. Dean has been caught, kneeling in the dust of a larder, by the son of a nobleman. ‘Stealing,’ by his own admission — and Castiel would rather set himself alight than make Dean feel compelled to return any act of his affection.

Instead, he gives Dean’s hand a quick squeeze of assurance before letting it go.

Dean’s eyes rise, wide in the candlelight, searching.

“I—I don’t understand, Castiel.”

Castiel meets his gaze, steady as the flame between them. 

“You’re not stealing,” he says gently. “We are.” 

A half smile curves Castiel’s lips.

“I’m coming with you, you stubborn ass.”

 

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Notes:

The verses Rowena has the women sing were from O Virtus Sapientiae composed by Saint Hildegard of Bingen around the 1150's, however the last three verses of hers speak of three wings. I changed it to six here because...Cas.
🪽🪽
🪽💙🪽
🪽🪽
Translations:
Amor semper protegit - Love always protects (I Corinthians 13:7)
O virtus sapientiae, - O power of Wisdom,
Quae circuiens circuisti, - You who encompass all,
Comprehendendo omnia - Encircling and embracing all
In una via, quae habet vitam, - In one path, which gives life,
Sex alas habens, - you have six wings

Duae in altum volant - Two soar to the heights,
Duae tegit faciem in lumine - Two shield the face in light,
Duae sustinent viam viventem. - Two uphold the living way.

Oh - and a small nod to Mark Sheppard's pre SPN work! 🔥

Please let me know what you think - and if you are as frustrated as they are - relief is on the way!!! ❤️❤️❤️

Chapter 20: The Seventh Day of Christmas - Part II - The Village

Notes:

I'm back!
Sorry for the delay. I have been agonizing over this chapter since early April. See notes at the end for why!
This chapter is unbeta'd at the moment.
Enjoy!

 

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Continued....

 

They topple a few more apples from the bin into the sack. Castiel rises. At the far end of the storeroom he finds another piece of old sackcloth and uses it to bind a parcel of dried peas and barley in the candlelight.

 

“All right,” he nods. “Let’s go. But quietly.”

 

“Wait! Wait!” Dean hisses a whisper, “This is barely enough for one family, let alone a village.”

 

Castiel's lips press together as he looks from Dean’s bundle to his, then back to Dean again. He feels Dean’s disappointment before he even gives his answer. He can’t meet the young man’s eyes.

 

“There’s no helping that,” he shrugs helplessly, eyeing the food stores, the table, the floor at Dean’s feet. 

 

Eyeing anything but Dean.

 

“I tried convincing my father. He was furious that I wouldn’t leave it alone. If anymore is missed, someone is bound to find out.”

 

“Those children…that little girl,” Dean swallows, then shakes his head, looking down. “I know that look, Cas. We…we have to do more. It’s the right thing, Cas.”

 

Castiel looks up, imploring Dean to understand, “But if my father or Michael –”

 

“What are they gonna do to you, Cas!”

 

“Not me, Dean! You! It’s what they’ll do to you!” Castiel gasps, far too loudly for stealth. “Merde!” he murmurs now, rushing to the door and glancing around the kitchen. But they are alone. There’s still no one in sight. He lets out a breath in relief, then closes his eyes and remembers.

 

Another night. Another secret. Stolen kisses in the old cottage, eager with boyhood, reckless with joy -  like singing birds breaking the hush before dawn. 

 

And then what came after — Discovery.  The fury in Michael’s voice. The coldness of his father’s dismissal. 

 

Inias, lost to him. Gone before morning.

 

He shakes away the memory and turns back. “Dean… I don’t care about myself. I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

 

Dean’s lips lift in that half smile. That infuriatingly cocky, careless, smile. “So let’s not get caught, then.”

 

Castiel huffs, shaking his head, every possible calamity swirling around him like a whirlwind of desiccated leaves. 

 

“We should go. Now, Dean,” he flicks his head toward the kitchen and steps toward the door. But before he can cross the storeroom threshold, Dean catches his hand. 

 

“Castiel!” 

 

His name is a whisper on Dean’s lips, a soft hush of wind in the fir trees. Dean’s hand grasps his, and something crackles along Castiel’s skin — spreads through him like flames catching tinder.

 

“Castiel,” Dean repeats, with a gentle squeeze of his hand. ‘This is right…You know this is right.”

 

Castiel blinks, coming back to himself with a sigh. Was there ever a chance he wouldn’t bend to Dean’s wishes?  Despite his fears, the firm weight of Dean’s grasp slowly settles Castiel’s thoughts. The kitchen is cold and dark, but Dean’s hand is warm in his, and Castiel feels it spread through him, along with Dean’s boldness – his certainty. For a moment, he wonders what his life might be –  who he might be, with Dean always at his side.  

 

“Yes…all right,” he nods.

 

Dean smiles in the dim light, and with a final squeeze of Castiel’s hand he turns to gather more provisions. The warmth of Dean’s hand fades too quickly and Castiel aches for its return, but his resolve holds fast. For the villagers. For the young girl.

 

For Dean.

 

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Lord Charles’ manor, its stables, and outbuildings are skirted by a stone wall, built in his grandfather’s time, more for the sake of corralling the manor’s livestock than for actual defense. Reaching six and eight feet high in most places, in times of conflict, guards would be stationed every twenty or thirty feet around the perimeter and wooden watchtowers with scaffolding erected for archers. But in peaceful times like these it’s rare to find a guard anywhere along the wall beyond the main gates, especially when the cold north winds keep marauders close to their home fires.

 

That’s what Castiel is counting on. 

 

There’s a place beyond the stables where the wall has worn down. Castiel shoulders his heavy bundle, then slinks among the shadows of the various sheds and outbuildings along the edge of the courtyard looking for it, while Dean prepares one more bundle in the darkened kitchen. Once he finds the spot, he’ll hurl the bundle of provisions to the other side and return for Dean and the rest. 

 

Just beyond the goat shed, where the stone has long since crumbled, Castiel finds the breach. After one last glance around, he hurls the sack over and hurries back. Dean is right. One is barely enough to hold a handful of families until Michael or some other of his father’s men deign to visit after Yule. That is, if they visit at all.

 

They’ll need help hauling it all to Lowfield. That’s where Dean’s horse-charming skills come in. Gwenny is stabled too close to the main courtyard. Too visible from the manor. So they’ll take Loki. Mercurial, stubborn, mischievous, Loki. Castiel sighs. He has his reservations about controlling the beast but since he’s stabled near the old goat pen out of view of the manor, he’ll be easier to slip out.

 

He’ll harness him, lead him by the quiet strip along the outer wall, and pass through the main gate unnoticed,

If the gate is guarded he’ll need a convincing excuse for riding his brother’s horse out in the dead of night. He could claim Gwenny is nursing a sore fetlock. He supposes he’ll have to think of something.

 

In any event, once through he’ll lead the horse beyond the bend in the wall and meet Dean.

 

Dean, meanwhile, will carefully lower a few boards to use as a sledge over the wall before climbing over himself. 

 

Once the provisions are delivered they’ll each return to the manor quietly the same way they left. Loki will be returned and they’ll be back in their beds before dawn.

 

O r so he hopes.

Finding the place in the wall, Castiel lowers his bundle and checks to make sure it’s tied tightly, then swings it in a low arc, releasing and letting it soar over the low wall. It hits with a thud on the other side, and Castiel hopes the apples will not be too bruised. 

 

He’s making his way back from placing the final sack and is nearing the side door of the kitchen when he hears the angry hiss of Zachariah’s voice, threatening, “You made a bargain, you were quite willing. You think you can just decide not to honor it now?”

 

“I never agreed to that! To whatever that was! And either way, it’s got nothing to do with you, my lord.”

 

Castiel approaches quietly, at a new angle, getting a glimpse of the man Zachariah has practically pinned to the wall. Of course, it’s Dean. He knew it from the sound of his voice. 

 

Dean stands silently now, shoulders straight, chin up, defiant in the face of Zachariah’s threats and insults.

 

His lips are pressed shut, his eyes pinned to the old, balding lord.

 

Wary. 

 

Neither seems to have noticed Castiel’s approach, and while he wants to intervene, Castiel wonders if it would be better for their plan to avoid being seen together.

 

“Alastair will find a way of getting his due,” the man says. “I can protect you if you know your place. Show a little gratitude.”

 

“Thank you, my lord.  But I don’t want anyone’s protection.” Dean tries to sidestep him, but Zachariah blocks his path. “Please, Sir — I’m needed elsewhere.” 

 

“Listen to me you little slut!”

 

The words are sharp and violent, and Castiel can stay quiet no longer.

 

“Dean!” he calls out. 

 

Zachariah stops short, and he and Dean turn and look as Castiel strides forward. 

 

“Are you alright?” 

 

“This is a private discussion. We’re in the middle of something here,” Zachariah warns.

 

“I’m afraid my ‘something’ takes precedence, Lord Zachariah.” His voice is low and laced with warning, the rumbling growl of a dangerous wolf. His eyes burn into the older man and for once Zachariah’s smug grin slips, lips curling in outrage.

 

“Do you have any idea who I am, Welp? The people I know? I should have your father whip you for your impertinence!” 

 

Castiel feels Dean’s eyes on him, silent and still, his back pressed to the wall. His neck prickles with heat as he holds Zachariah’s stare, stepping forward.

 

“I know who you are…and I know what you are. You’re a man who thinks your title affords you honor and respect. You depend on it because your character garners you none.” 

 

Zachariah straightens, eyebrows rising as Castiel steps closer.

 

“You belittle and use people you think are beneath you. Who you think are powerless or worthless, so that you can feel strong.”

 

“You insolent little bastard! Who do you think you are?” Zachariah barks, but he steps back, his eyes flicker nervously to his surroundings. 

 

“My mother’s welp,” Castiel answers without hesitation, and an unfamiliar warmth fills his chest. 

 

Pride.

 

His chin lifts a fraction. 

 

“You know. Saxon to the bone. And just as truculent.”

 

Zachariah’s eyes narrow at his words, but he stands motionless.

 

“Come with me please, Dean,” Castiel urges. “Michael has concerns about his role in tomorrow's revels. I’m to escort you to him immediately.”

 

He extends his arm and beckons, his voice calm, almost pleasant now, but his eyes never leave Zachariah’s.

 

“Of course, my lord,” Dean ducks his head respectfully, and for once Castiel lets the honorific stand. Dean squeezes himself between the wall and Zachariah. “I’ll come with you at once.”

 

He slips past quickly and heads through the side door into the kitchen. 

 

“Have a pleasant evening, Lord Zachariah,” Castiel adds, his voice hard as steel once Dean is safely inside. “I’m afraid Dean will be occupied all night with the planning. He won’t be able to help you.” 

 

Zachariah’s jaw is tight. He huffs, before turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the guest wing of the manor, past the wicket gate. 

 

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“Are you all right?” 

 

Castiel strides toward Dean, who stands waiting, leaning his back against the side of the hearth. He lifts Dean’s chin with a gentle touch, eyes tracing over his face, looking for any sign of hurt.

 

Dean holds his gaze a heartbeat too long.

 

“I’m fine,” his voice scrapes, but he’s looking at Castiel a little strangely. After a moment, he swallows and lowers his eyes.

 

“Jesus, Cas,” he shakes his head.

 

“What?”

 

Dean huffs a laugh. Fond. More breath than sound. “Never saw you so…just never saw you like that before. “

 

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

 

“He’s a lord, and you just... you just stripped him down to nothing.”  

 

Dean looks at him wide-eyed and Castiel feels himself straighten. He hadn’t thought about it really. He’d just done it. 

 

“You didn’t need to do that. God’s nails, Cas, I’m not wor–”

 

Castiel’s hand moves on instinct, covering Dean’s mouth.

 

“Don’t say it. Hush, Dean,” he says gently, but firmly. His eyes search Dean’s. How could someone who does so much for others think so little of himself. “If you were about to say you’re not worth it, then just hush. You’re worth it, Dean. You are. Understand?”

 

Dean blinks. Then slowly, as if surrendering something, he nods. 

 

Castiel lets his hand fall, stepping back, suddenly aware that he’s cornered Dean. Backed him against a wall and— 

 

His pulse is thudding loud in his ears now, and a flicker of self-consciousness creeps in like cold air through a crack in the wall. He hadn’t meant to….to coerce or command Dean. Is he no better than Zachariah, or Michael or his father? Is this how it starts? He clears his throat and straightens. 

 

“We should go,” he says, quietly. Eyes flicking to the ground at their feet. “We should finish this.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, but he’s still. Castiel feels his eyes on him. 

 

After a breath that feels more like a lifetime, Dean steps away from the wall. “Yeah. Let’s go to Lowfield.”

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A short while later, Dean is shimmying over the wall while Castiel nervously guides Loki to the main gate. 

 

“Cold night for a ride, master Castiel,” a voice says from behind. 

 

Castiel startles, turning quickly.  He recognises the guard. An older man who’s been in Sir Charles' service since Castiel was a child.

 

“Can’t sleep,” Castiel returns with a lopsided smile and a casual shrug, the words puffing in little white clouds. “Thought a ride might clear my head.”

 

He has at the ready a story about needing to give his mount a rest and exercising his brother’s instead but the kindly guard merely nods at him.

 

“Godspeed, young master,” the guard tells him. “Not likely to be anyone else out on the roads tonight, but watch yourself.”

 

“Thank you, Ulrich,” Castiel nods to the older man. 

 

He guides Loki to the meeting point where Dean is waiting with the sacks of provisions and the wooden sledge, they’d manage to lower over the wall. 

 

Dean gets to work on fitting Loki with a harness while Castiel loads up the goods. On their last trip to the wall they’d each shouldered a pin of hard cider — a full firkin in all. It might not be enough to last the villagers long, but it would warm some spirits for a night or two. He secures the small oak casks between the heavy sacks of apples and dried foods. When everything is secure, Dean clicks his tongue and Loki follows his lead. 

 

They walk on foot, leading the horse on paths illuminated only by moonlight on snow. It’s slow going at first where the trail dips into the forest beyond the manor and the threat of being discovered stifles any desire for conversation. They walk in silence, but the occasional smile Dean flashes him makes it a companionable one. 

 

They continue past the edge of dark forest to where the fields open up. The moon makes an occasional appearance from behind thick clouds, illuminating the landscape. There’s a hillock ahead of them, then a bend in the land toward a small stream, before the land flattens out again and the village of Lowfield comes into view. 

 

There is little to steal in the small impoverished village, but the villagers have set out a guard none-the-less, who disappears from sight momentarily, only to be joined by four other men as Castiel and Dean approach. 

 

“Who’s there?” a man shouts, half query, half warning.

 

“We come with provisions,” Dean says at Castiel’s hesitancy. “Courtesy of my Master here, and Lord Charles, his father.”

 

The men’s eyes turn from stern and wary to surprised when they recognize Castiel and Dean from their visit just two days before.

 

“Good ‘een, Masters,” the eldest man greets, swiftly dipping his head. “We’d not thought to see you back this way.”

 

Loki nickers and Castiel pats his neck as he speaks. “We thought we’d thank you…for your hospitality the other night.” 

 

The men of the village exchange bewildered glances.

 

“You shared your ale with us when we were in need of something to quench our thirst. So we came to return the favor.” Perhaps it didn’t happen exactly like that, but Castiel remembers what Dean said about allowing these people to hold on to their pride. He nods at the sacks full of goods. “Maybe you and your menfolk can help us unload it?”

 

More villagers have gathered behind the men and whispers scatter as the people come forward to take their turn as Dean hands bundle after bundle to the villagers. A few run back toward the crumbling hovels and within moments lanterns are appearing as from house to house the message is relayed – Lord Charles’ youngest, Castiel and his friend, have brought them a Yuletide feast. 

 

Even the young ones are roused despite the late hour and before long a fire is lit in the center of the ring of houses. Women wrapped in threadbare blankets greet Dean and Castiel with smiles and bobs of their heads as the provisions are distributed, a small cask of the cider is tapped, and cups are filled. 

 

There are parcels of dried peas tucked away with bundles of apples and several smoked ham hocks that will provide the villagers with rich broth for a few weeks to come. Before leaving the kitchen Castiel and Dean had found some cast off ginger cakes that Mildred thought too misshapen and browned to send to the manor guests, but the children here are delighted, having never themselves tasted the likes of sugar and spices.

 

Somewhere a reed whistle starts a jovial tune and Castiel is struck by the look in the eyes of the villagers as they laugh and begin to dance in the firelight. There’s a light in them that he’d not seen on their last visit here.

 

Hope.

 

Dean reaches to untie a bundle from Loki’s saddle and pulls from it something wrapped in cloth. His rebec and bow. The next moment he’s playing along in harmony with the reed whistle and the children are making a chain with their hands and pulling Castiel and some of the other adults along to the music. 

 

The music carries on, bright as the firelight, but when the tune ends and the villagers clap, Castiel steps back from the gathering and stands by Dean. He scans the crowd, frowning.

 

“She’s not here.”

 

Dean follows his gaze. “Who?”

 

“The girl,” Castiel says. “She looked as though she had one foot already in the otherworld.”

 

Dean’s expression tightens. He looks across the circle of houses and bonfire-lit faces but doesn’t find her. 

 

“Let’s ask.”

 

They find a woman wrapping her arms around a young child near the stew pot.

 

“Pardon, mistress,” Castiel says. “There was a child, frail, with dark hair. We noticed her last time, but don’t see her here tonight.” He hesitates a moment, fearful of the response he will get. “Would you happen to know where she is?”

 

The woman’s eyes soften.

 

“Anla,” she says. “Poor thing’s taken ill. Weak as a wisp. Her mam’s keeping a fire for her, but she hasn’t the strength for dancing.” She nods toward a small, low-roofed hovel near the edge of the square. “That one there. Tell her Mags sent you.”

 

Dean has already turned to the saddlebag, hands deft as he pulls out a bundle they’d prepared with this child in mind — dried peas, ham hocks, apples and the misshapen ginger cakes.

 

Castiel follows him as he knocks gently at the cottage door.

 

It creaks open, revealing a narrow space lit only by a low-burning peat fire. An older woman, weary beyond her years, answers the door.

 

Her eyes widen when she sees them, and her hands flutter toward her skirts in a curtsey.

 

“Evening, masters,” she says warily. “What can I do for you?”

 

“Mags sent us. We heard you have a little one too ill to join the gathering outside, so we’re bringing a portion to you and thought we might play a song for your child,” Dean says with a polite dip of his head.

 

“Oh.” Her mouth drops open a moment. She hastily wipes her hands on her skirts, looking back into the cottage. “In that case, come in, come in. You’ll pardon our humble dwelling. It's been a rough season.”

 

They duck through the doorway, warmth from the hearth brushing their cheeks. Dean hands Castiel the parcel, then quietly crosses to a low stool by the bedside.

 

The child lies still, eyes open, watching.

 

He lowers himself slowly, careful not to crowd her. His voice is soft.

 

“Hello. You must be Anla?”

 

She looks at him with those hollow eyes, then glances at her mother. 

 

“It’s alright, child,” her mother says. 

 

She looks back at Dean and nods.  “What is everyone doing outside?” she asks, finding her voice.

 

“Celebrating Yule,” Dean says. He glances at Castiel with a smile, then back to the girl. “But it’s not a celebration unless everyone’s included, right? My friend and I heard you're not feeling up to joining the revels outside, so we thought we’d bring the celebration to you.”

 

The girl’s bright, joyful smile momentarily transforms the gaunt look of her half-starved face and Castiel’s heart aches, his throat tight as he swallows. Despite this small reprieve, the specter of hardship hangs heavy over this place. He knows her danger is too real as he hands the small parcel of dried peas and a portion of ham hock over to her mother. 

 

Unwrapping the parcel, the woman gasps and bobs a curtsey, “Bless you, my lord. Bless you!” – and Castiel, too affected by the desperation of their reality, doesn't think to correct her. She rushes to the kettle and empties the portion of hambone and meat into its watery contents, stirring the waning peat fire back to life. “Look, Anla, my love! We’ll have some ham and peas porridge by mornin’ thanks to these kind young men.” She smiles again at Castiel, adding, “When that good man said he’d send provisions, I never reckoned it would be so soon.”

 

“What man?” 

 

“Don’t know who he was exactly. Mag’s boy Donal was off to cut peat when he came across him. Up on the hillock he was, looking over the village. Asked him how the people were faring and gave him some bread and a small sack of flour. Said he’d be back. Mag’s, bless her soul, divided it up for some of the folks with littlin’s or sick folk like my Anla.”

 

A few more villagers crowd into the small dwelling, children mostly with adults watching from the doorway, providing a human buffer against the outside cold as Dean puts the bow to his rebec. He plays a lively tune that has the children clapping and jigging and Anla smiling from her place beneath the worn blanket. 

 

Castiel’s chest fills with warmth as he watches Dean’s easy way with these people. The green of his eyes are lost to the dark of the hearth-lit room, but they are beautiful just the same. Open and kind. 

 

Dean winks – the movement is small, but it pierces him like an arrow piercing armor— and it’s only then he realizes he’s been staring. Caught off guard, he blinks and shifts his gaze, feeling a hot rush of blood blooming on his cheeks. 

 

His eyes wander to the others in the room – the giggling children in the dance, the smiling men and women clapping for them. A few young girls, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, are gazing at Dean with something akin to longing or adoration. 

 

A strange pang of jealousy twists inside Castiel’s chest, but he pushes it down. They are free to look at Dean that way without judgment, when Castiel must hide. 

 

The tune shifts to a soft, slow melody, the kind made for sweethearts, and sure enough, the village approves with sighs, a few chuckles, and playful jibes as an otherwise rough looking grizzled old man takes an elderly woman’s hand and begins to lead her in a slow, almost courtly dance. 

 

Dean’s melody weaves around them like a midsummer breeze, and with soft touches and looks of love, the wizened old couple is transformed. 

 

There’s a lightness in the matron’s smile. The glow of girlhood shimmers on her skin as her skirts swirl around her, and though his beard is grey and his eyes framed with crows' feet, the light of youthfulness is in them, like the first spring shoots emerging through the harsh frost of winter. 

 

Dean's eyes are closed as he plays, and Castiel watches, spellbound, as he summons magic with his bow, as if the mythic bard Taliesin himself called the tune. 

 

The song ends, the villagers crowded inside the small hovel applaud, as the old couple kiss and retreat, hand in hand with eyes only for each other. 

 

“Didn’t think old Godric still had it in him,” the man next to him tells a neighbor.

 

“Mama,” a child calls, pulling on her mother’s skirts, “Gammy looked so beautiful! Did you see it?” 

 

Without waiting for an answer the child bounces away, twirling this way and that as if she too were dancing. 

 

Castiel looks around at the people -- their spontaneous joy.

 

There’s a thrumming inside him like honeybees, pollen-drunk with spring blooms, because Dean did that.  

 

He looks over just in time to find Dean gazing back at him, his expression uncharacteristically shy, as if seeking Castiel’s appraisal. 

 

“My Dean did that,” he murmurs. 

 

Dean’s brows knit quizzically. He cocks his head half-smiling, as if wondering what Castiel said and hoping it was favorable.

 

Castiel thinks of the elderly couple and can’t help but wonder what it would be like to grow old with someone who, after years of struggle, still looks at you with such tenderness –  the way the old man looked at his beloved, as their hands touched and the years fell away.

 

The way Dean is looking at him now. 

 

“I love him.”

 

The words escape him unbidden, barely a breath, soft as rose petals on his lips. It hits him then, swift and searing, like an arrow of fire. At first, he’d tried to deny it, then later, he’d thought he considered the possibility of it, but tried to reframe it as brotherly love, as deep affection, as sacrifice. But now —

 

I love him.

 

Castiel’s lips part, but no words follow.

 

There are no other words. 

 

It’s the first time he’s said those words aloud and felt the true weight of them.

 

And the sensation it brings —

 

There’s a thick, sweet feeling flowing over him, like he’s drunk too much honey mead. He huffs a small laugh and shakes his head, dizzy with the joy of giving a name to his feelings. 

 

I love him, he thinks as he smiles at the man across the room, who’s captured everyone’s heart, including now, irrevocably, his own.

 

Yet, the fire in Castiel’s chest has a cold, sharp edge to it as he remembers himself, because the love in his heart changes everything… and changes nothing.

 

His eyes drift away to the far corner of the dark hovel as he reminds himself of the deal he made to save his brother’s family.

 

A barren cell.

 

A dormitory of celebates.

 

A damp northern clime. 

 

That thing in the oubliette sneers at him. ‘ No matter what choices you make,’ it laughs, ‘we will always end up here.’ A broken sigh leaves his chest. 

 

But then another voice rings out from memory— this one kinder, more resonant, more vivid than the one before. Dean's words sound as if spoken anew.

 

'Play along, Cas!... Maybe you don’t get to have your heart's desire…maybe none of us do, but for these twelve days….'. 

 

Could he? 

 

Would Dean even want that? With Castiel? 

 

The Yule fire has consumed more than half of the great tree in the manor’s hearth, but there is time yet… 

 

Could they still find some joy in each other? 

 

Could they both just play along? Snatch some joy from this cold season, if only for a short while?

 

Castiel's heart hammers with want as he lifts his gaze once more to Dean's.

 

A flurry of movement breaks the moment  — several villagers wishing the mistress of the household and her daughter good health. They begin to take their leave, but Dean is still watching him, still waiting for a sign.

 

Castiel swallows over the stone in his throat.

 

“That was quite lovely, Dean,” he says softly.

 

The smile that Dean beams back at him is like the pure summer sun on a newborn rose. 

 

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Dean bends, speaking softly with Anla from across her sick bed. He makes Anla laugh with that easy way he has with people. 

 

The villagers have all made their way outside again. So should they, Dean suggests, so Anla can rest. He glances up for confirmation and Castiel nods his agreement. But before they take their final leave, Dean lifts his rebec and begins one final tune, soft and slow — a lullaby. 

 

The young girl’s mother is sitting now, on the other side of the bed, holding her daughter’s hand, her eyes moist with unshed tears as Anla smiles up at Dean.

 

Castiel lets his mind drift to what he knows is impossible – about what it might be like to make a home and a life with Dean…perhaps give a home to some orphan or foundling and raise him together. He looks down at Anla now, her eyelids heavy with oncoming sleep. Castiel reaches out and brushes a few stray strands of hair from her brow. In the firelight, she looks peaceful, and he prays to Saint Æthelthryth that their offerings will be enough to nourish and strengthen her, until more food arrives. 

 

He wonders about the man the boy saw along the forest ridge. Someone from the town, perhaps?

 

Dean’s song ends. Anla’s eyelids are heavy with the coming of sleep. They bid their farewell to the child’s mother and make their way back outside. 

 

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By now, some of the dried peas and ham they’ve brought have been boiled on a hastily constructed cookfire in the center of the village and bowls are being passed around first to the children, then to the adults. It might not be usual for the children to be out so late on a cold night, but Castiel and Dean’s visit has created a celebratory mood amongst the otherwise dour village and convention is set aside for the evening.

 

A few young men and one or two elders are playing on homemade instruments — a reed pipe, a tabor, and something like a lyre made from a hollowed-out gourd. Dean joins them, lightening the spirits of the village as one of the men passes out small cups of warmed cider to share. 

 

Finally, the tune comes to an end, Dean wraps his rebec and bow and carefully places it in its leather bag. The hour is late by the time Castiel and Dean bid the villagers goodbye. They leave the scraps of boards they used for the sledge with the village for repurposing and lead Loki back toward the fields, away from the village.

 

Dean’s cheeks are rosy from the frost, his fingers red and chapped where he grips Loki’s reins. Castiel glances at his worn boots. Castiel’s boots are of fine quality, well-oiled leather treated with beeswax and lined with lambswool to keep out the elements, and even so, his toes are nearly numb. Dean’s boots are more simply constructed and worn with age and use. His feet must be half-frozen from the wet snow beneath their feet.

 

Castiel reaches for the reins and Dean’s brow furrows.

 

“I’ll hold Loki. You should ride, Dean. There’s no sense in both of us walking.” 

 

Dean laughs. “If anything, you should be the one riding. You outrank me, my lord,” Dean smiles and bows, clearly joking, but Castiel hates it. Hates the rank that stands between them. 

 

“Not your lord, Dean,” he says softly. “Not anyone’s, but especially not yours. I don’t ever want you to see me like you do them. Please,” Castiel lowers his eyes and shakes his head.

 

“I never could,” Dean replies, and Castiel raises his eyes. “But if I were born to greater fortune… if I were a knight who could pledge my fealty…” Dean’s chin lifts, “It would be a privilege to pledge it to you.”

 

In the stillness that follows, even the soft sound of their breath seems thunderous. Something prickles in the air between them, like a coming storm. Castiel feels cracked open under Dean’s gaze. 

 

And seen. 

 

And… known.

 

Something rises in him….like a pair of great wings yearning to break free and envelop Dean in their embrace.

 

My beloved.

 

It is almost too much to bear.

 

The wind rises around them. Castiel’s hands move to the clasp of his cloak, and suddenly a wave of blue wool and black ermine is wrapping itself around Dean.

 

“Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. “You’ll freeze—”

 

“No, I won’t,” Castiel murmurs, smiling. He shifts, grabs hold of Loki’s saddle, and hoists himself up. Then he turns, reaching his arm out for Dean to grasp.

 

“I’ll ride in front,” he says. “You’ll keep us both warm.”

 

Dean hesitates for only a breath, then smiles and grasps his forearm, pulling Dean up behind him.

 

Castiel shortens the reins and clicks his tongue, urging Loki forward.

 

Dean settles in behind Castiel, doing his best to spread the cloak so it covers them both, and yet, he holds his body at a distance. Still, Dean’s warmth radiates at Castiel’s back, and Dean’s hands settle lightly on his hips. So lightly, as if Dean is afraid to hold on too tight, afraid to close the distance. 

 

They ride in silence for a few minutes, putting the village behind them. An unspoken tension hovers in the air around them. Dean’s hands remain on either side of Castiel’s hips, barely touching, and Castiel sits straight as a pikeman’s spear  – thoughts racing.

 

Was it strange of him? Taking off his cloak and wrapping it around Dean? Did he make it awkward? Would Dean think he was—

 

“I’m a little impressed,” Dean says, breaking the silence.

 

Castiel is so grateful for the reprieve he releases a breath. “Why is that?”

 

“You’ve managed to keep Loki from tossing us onto our arses so far.”

 

He laughs. “We’re barely to the forest path. Give him time.”

 

A few more moments pass in silence, and that choking fear returns  – the need to speak, to say something interesting. Anything! 

 

It looms over him like some sneering magistrate ready to pronounce him unfit for human companionship. His mind scrambles for words and all he finds is self-doubt. How could he ever have hoped to keep the attention of someone like Dean?

“Want to play ‘If I were a?” Dean asks, once again breaking the hush of the snow-draped fields.

 

Castiel blinks. “If you were a what?” 

 

“It’s a game. You pick something, anything — like a song, or a cart, or a bean, and we each have to say what kind of song or cart or bean the other would be.

 

Castiel looks skeptical, “A cart? Why would anyone be a—”

 

“It doesn’t have to be a cart,” Dean groans as if Castiel is being too literal. “Okay, bad example. I was just saving the good ones.” 

 

“But what if I don’t know which one of… something you’d be?”

 

“That’s the fun part, Cas. You have to pick something, and you have to have a reason, or at least think of one quickly. But we have to answer at the same time.”

 

Castiel isn’t sure he’s following. “Why?” 

 

Dean shrugs. “So you don’t steal my answer, and I can’t steal yours or try to think of a better one. You’ve got to say what you’re really thinking.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “How would you know what I’m really thinking? How do I  know you’re telling the truth? Or that I am?”

 

Dean smirks. “That’s the rule. Say what comes to mind. Hedging ruins the game.”

 

“This sounds like a dangerous game,” Castiel mutters.

 

Dean sighs.

 

It quiets again, the only sound the muffled clod of Loki’s hooves in the snow. Castiel blows a stray hair from his brow, a little bit worried, but resigned.

 

 “Very well,” he sighs. “I’ll do my best.”

 

“Atta boy!” Dean pats his back beneath the shared cloak, and it slips. He settles it over their shoulders again. “I’ll start us off with an easy one. If I were a shape, what would I be? One, two—”

 

“Wait!” Castiel yelps, flustered. “How is that an easy question? No one is a shape! ”

 

“Use your imagination, Cas! Now start over. Ready?”

 

“No!”

 

“Too bad! One, two, three—”

 

“An arc!” it leaps from his lips while Dean simultaneously shouts “A triangle!” and Castiel regrets his choice immediately!

 

“An arc?” Dean scrunches his nose. “What kind of answer is that? Is that even a shape?”

 

“Of course it’s a shape,” Castiel says, indignant.

 

Dean laughs. 

 

“Barely. It’s like a shape that gave up halfway. I hope you don’t think I’m a quitter, Cas.”

 

“If you’re going to criticize all of my answers—”

 

“I’m not criticizing. I’m inquiring.”

 

Castiel huffs. “Well, if an arc isn’t a shape, it should be.”

 

Dean holds up his hands. “Fine, fine. Why an arc?”

 

“Why a triangle?” he counters.

 

“I thought of the question. You go first.”

 

“Because…” he reaches for something safe. “Because I thought of the night you arrived. You and Sam threw those flaming batons in the air making an arc of fire that Gabriel came through. It was quite impressive.” Castiel smiles for a moment, relieved. It’s a perfectly good answer and Dean’s laugh seems pleased. 

 

But it's not the real one.

 

 He doesn’t want to lie to Dean. He keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead as he speaks. 

 

“And because…”

 

“What?” Dean encourages at Castiel’s hesitation.

 

He swallows.

 

This is a dangerous game. His voice softens as he makes his confession.

 

“Because of the way the right side of your mouth arcs up in a half grin when you flirt.”

 

Dean laughs as if to deny it. Castiel feels the warm rumble of it against his back. 

 

“When have you ever seen me flirting?”

 

He forgets his momentary shyness and turns to look at Dean, because he’s got to be joking!

 

“Dean. Only every time you breathe.”

 

Suddenly, it’s Dean who’s shy, sputtering and looking askance.

 

“That’s not— I mean, I don’t—” 

 

And something about unnerving him makes Castiel smile and sit straighter.

 

“Why a triangle?” he cuts in, saving him. The cloak has slipped again and he shivers as a blast of wind stirs the branches and leaves along the trail.

 

Dean lets out a breath. “I met a man in Lincoln once. Stone mason by trade. They’re building a cathedral on the bones of the old church there. He said it will be the tallest thing in the land when it’s finished. Tall enough to touch the clouds! I asked him how something so tall could reach so high and not topple with the winds and he showed me.  It’s the triangle. Strongest shape there is.”

 

He settles in closer and fluffs the cloak over them again as he says it, making sure it covers them both and moving in  closer. His chin nearly rests on Castiel’s shoulder now.

 

“But…what has that got to do with me?”

 

“That’s what you do. You bear the weight.”

 

Castiel shifts. “I don’t understand. What weight?”

 

“You hold up your whole family, Cas. Michael –  he has your father’s title and inheritance to keep him once Lord Charles passes on. He could be your family’s patriarch, but you’re the one looking out for your brother.” Dean shakes his head, “Forgive me, Cas but Gabriel isn’t exactly known for his reliability. And yet…you helped us when he took ill. Brother Robert says you pulled some kind of chess move to buy him time to get his manor back. I reckon if he gets to keep it his sons will have you to thank for that.”

 

“How did you know about that?”

 

“Overheard him telling Rowena. He was impressed.”

 

Castiel sighs.”He shouldn’t have…I mean I wish he hadn’t told anyone.”  Castiel worries that in the end his efforts to help Gabriel won’t matter.

 

“Rowena won’t say anything, and I think he just was surprised is all. Meant it as a compliment. Anyway, my point was You’re the triangle. You try to support everyone. Even when they don’t deserve it.”

 

A pause opens between them, golden and warm. He’s aware of the spread of Dean’s hands on his waist. Not too heavy, just enough to steady himself against Loki’s gait. 

 

“Thank you," Castiel murmurs. 

 

He wasn’t expecting that. Everything has moved so fast these past few days. He never thought of himself that way. He fears Dean is wrong, and that it will all come to nothing in the end. 

 

“All right….I’ll ask a question. If I were an instrument what would I be? One, two, three!”

 

“A —-”

 

“A drum.”

 

Dean waits.

 

“A— umm.”

 

“Cas, it was your question. How can you not have an answer?” Dean huffs, but it’s fond. His arms slip comfortably around Castiel’s waist and across his middle and…. Oh.

 

“Cas?”

 

“Huh?” He snaps to attention, trying to ignore the growing buzz inside, from just feeling Dean’s arms around him.  “Oh - I mean – I just realized I don’t know the name of it,” he hurries to explain. “The one you played the other night, when you sang in Occitan. The one you learned from the troubadour. It was about…” 

 

“Desire,” Dean finishes.

 

“Yes.” 

 

Castiel hesitates, remembering the way Dean’s eyes met his, the way he believed, or maybe wished, the song was meant for him. “That one.”

 

“That was a Symphonia. It’s used mostly in sacred music.”

 

Castiel laughs to himself. Of course it was.

 

“What?” There’s a smile in Dean’s voice as he pulls Cas closer, craning his head to look at his face. “What are you laughing at?”

 

He turns his head, even in the dark, he can see the half-arc of Dean’s lips – detects the playful glint in Dean’s eyes.  For a moment Castiel forgets to breathe. Then turns his gaze pointedly back to the road in front of them as he answers. 

 

“I’m not laughing at you. I was just thinking, it’s fitting then….”

 

“Fitting?”

 

“Fitting. Because your voice turned a hall of drunken knights into a sanctuary…an otherworldly place. And the song felt…. Holy ….it felt like…holy desire.”

 

A silence falls between them.

 

“Dean?” Castiel turns, “What is it?”

 

Dean’s looking down as he huffs a laugh, but it's breathless. “Thanks, Cas.”

 

“Are you all right?” 

 

“Yeah… Yeah I am. I hoped you’d like it…Ummm …my turn. If I –” he clears his throat. “If I were a kitchen tool what would I be?”

 

Cas straightens, “God’s wounds, Dean, if you say a slotted spoon—” he warns.

 

“Quick, Cas! One, two, three!”

 

“A poker. “

 

“A salt horn.” they say in unison.

 

“A what? A salt horn?” Castiel bursts out laughing at the absurdity of it. 

 

“Oh!” Dean leans in and cocks his head, meeting Castiel’s eyes with a playful challenge. “Am I really  getting shit  from the man who just suggested I’m a poker? A poker, Cas?” Dean chooses this moment to prod at Castiel’s ribs with his index fingers, prompting a miniature horseback scuffle of arms and laughter from them both.

 

Loki, unamused, huffs loudly and side steps.

 

“Sshhh-shhhh-shhh, easy, boy,” Dean hushes, patting the horse’s flank as they catch their breath. 

 

For a moment neither of them speak. No one rushes to explain. Dean’s hands settle comfortably around his waist again. 

 

Castiel breathes in deeply and exhales, letting himself relax against Dean’s chest. 

 

Behind him Dean goes suddenly still and the flushing heat of embarrassment, of possible misread signs, creeps up Castiel’s neck. He starts to sit up, but Dean pulls him back, one arm winding just a little tighter.

 

Castiel’s every nerve is awake and alive, zinging and wanting more of Dean’s warmth, more of his touch. He holds the reins in one hand, slipping the other over Dean’s arm, a gentle weight, settling and keeping him close. His heart quickens its pace, and he grasps for the presence of mind to speak.

 

“S–so tell me… Why would I be a… a salt horn?”

 

“Because salt makes everything… just better.”

 

“Not if it gets in a wound.”

 

“You know what I mean. It takes what is bland and gives it life,” Dean answers, his voice soft now, earnest. “But it’s more than that. It’s preservation. Fortifying. Vital. From the sea, but steady as the earth. It might not shine like gold but its value is sure.”

 

Castiel's throat tightens. “Dean…. I’m not any of those things.”

 

“You are,” Dean says. “You stand up for the kitchen maid. For the old stablemaster. For Gabriel, even for me. Even if we don’t deserve it.” His voice drops. “I’ve spent years singing songs about the goodness and virtue of noble men. Mostly lies and flattery we commoners used to get by and to give people hope for something better. Then I met you. 

You make me want to believe a little in those stories, Cas. My father used to say ‘Good men are the salt of the earth.’ Rare, honest, and good. That’s why. You got all that inside you. You’re good, and honest, and brave – and that’s worth more than gold.”

 

Castiel’s voice trembles, “But I never would have done any of those things, I don’t think… if it wasn’t for you. I was — ‘skulking’ as you put it –  in the courtyard. Then you came and –You just made me so angry, I just wanted to prove you wrong.”

 

“One of my many talents,” Dean chuckles, but his voice is thick with something raw and vulnerable.

 

“No — what I mean is, I’ve never felt brave. But you make me want to be.”

 

After a moment Castiel gathers the courage to speak.

 

“You’d be a poker…”

 

Dean chuckles, and Castiel can’t help but smile despite himself.

 

“Because from a few small embers you can stir a hearth to life.” 

 

It’s absurd. The whole thing is absurd! They both know it, but he gathers confidence as he speaks because, silly game or no, his sentiments are true — and Dean deserves to hear them. 

 

“You stoke merriment out of nothing. With your music, your songs.” Castiel turns to glance back at him. “Just by being who you are, Dean. You bring warmth and fire to people's hearts in the cold of winter and you…you stir new feelings to life…in uh…in people.”

 

“In people?”

 

“Yes, in people…and… in me.”

 

Dean is silent and still, as if frozen behind him. Then his arms tighten, pulling Castiel closer. Dean tips his head forward, resting in the crook of his neck. The softness of Dean’s hair brushes his cheek.

 

“You know, Cas, if you keep saying things like that, I might never be able to let you go,” he sighs. 

 

Dean’s breath is warm along the curve of Castiel’s jaw —  the steady rhythm of waves, on the shore as it quickens. Castiel shivers, his own breath coming faster, yet not fast enough.

 

The reins slip, forgotten in his grip as Castiel shifts, turning his body toward Dean. Even in the sparse moonlight, he is beautiful.  Dean’s eyes flick between his, imploring and ardent - and Castiel nods…

 

Just nods. 

 

Because the fear and awkwardness he’d felt earlier is gone, replaced with certainty and longing as Dean leans in and Castiel’s eyes drift shut.  His lips are full and rose-petal soft. His strong fingers twine in Castiel’s hair.  

 

Castiel’s lips part —  the taste of hard cider is sweet on Dean’s tongue. His arm slips around Dean’s back, his other hand finds the curve of Dean’s hip as they press against each other and Castiel realizes, this game, this silly, dangerous game was never just a game, and that Dean must have known it from the very start.

 

“Cas,” Dean murmurs against his lips, “I never told you why you’d be the drum.” Their noses graze and Dean smiles – breathless. “But I was wrong anyway. You’re not the drum. You’re the drummer.”

 

Castiel pulls back only to meet his gaze. “Why?”

 

Dean takes Castiel’s hand and slowly, gently, presses it to his chest and holds it there. Beneath Castiel’s palm

Dean’s heart pounds like wild hoofbeats over hollow ground.

 

“Because this—” Dean swallows. “This… feeling inside me?” His voice is low and raw. “It’s you, Cas. It’s all because of you.”

 

Their foreheads press together, noses grazing as they share a breath, and time, or rather their lack of it, makes Castiel bold.

 

“If I’m the drummer, Dean,” he gasps, his own heart thundering, “then let me keep the rhythm.”

 

His hand fists in Dean’s tunic, pulling him close. Castiel leans in and Dean yields against his lips – their kisses breathless, desperate, feverish, and fierce.

 

Like they’re trying to outrun time.

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Notes:

So when I first envisioned this fic, it was because of a little romance video that was running through my head while listening to Blackmore's Night's versions of Good King Wenceslas- one of my favorite Christmas Carols. At the time I was thinking about the beauty and the beast trope with Richard Armitage's Guy of Gisborne and an idea of some lass almost coercing him into distributing food in the dead of winter, and after interactions with the locals, his heart opening and growing like the Grinch, and then - the moment - his eyes meet hers and he realizes he is in love. I know! Soooo darn tropey!

Castiel is no hard-hearted Guy of Gisborne, but I wanted him to have that kind of "I love you" moment with Dean. This was a really hard chapter for me to write and I'm really not sure if it lands so if you enjoyed it please let me know!

Thank you for the kudos, the comments, and the subscriptions! They mean so much to me and inspire me to keep going, especially when it's hard!

Chapter 21: The Eighth Day of Christmas - Part I - Mooncalf

Notes:

Thank you so much to Sarah and Lexi for beta-reading this!

 

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January 1st 1197 - The wee hours of the Eighth Day of Christmas en route from the village.

 

Finally.

Castiel is in his arms, his body warm and firm beneath his hands and his lips —

Soft...tender…seeking…begging…demanding, and for once, Dean is kissing and touching and feeling alive — without having to pretend he’s somewhere else… with someone else, because Castiel is everything he’s ever wanted, and nothing he’s ever deserved.

And it’s not like he’ll get to keep this…

In only a few days he and the troop will be moving on in search of some other patron — some other place to lay his head, some other bed to warm, and Castiel…

Castiel will be off to the monastery with Brother Robert, learning to save people with leaves and flowers and little black seeds. He’ll deliver medicines and hope, just like he did in the village tonight. He’ll be respected, and most importantly, Castiel will stay warm and fed, with a roof over his head. It might not be the life he wanted for himself — but who the hell gets that anyway? 

Dean feels a strange sort of pride for the man in his arms as Castiel shifts in the saddle and pulls him closer. He thinks about all the kindness and good Castiel will bring to the world, and his chest swells knowing that right now, this strong, stubborn, stupidly intelligent, caring, beautiful, chivalrous man inexplicably wants Dean. 

Their time with each other may be short, but fuck if Dean isn’t going to love him with everything he’s got while he has the chance!

Castiel’s hands glide over Dean’s chest and back, pressing and pulling and touching, and all Dean can think about is how he wants more than anything to feel those firm fingers, those strong hands on his bare skin – wants the press of Cas’ body against his. 

He kisses and mouths over the bolt of Castiel’s jaw, down the column of his neck and back, feeling the scritch of Cas’ stubble against his cheek and beneath his lips. Castiel’s breath comes in short little puffs against Dean’s ear, and his body is twisted in the saddle in such a way that his left thigh rests over Dean’s lap, and there’s no possible way he can’t feel Dean’s interest rising. But as much as Dean wants this to continue, he’s snapped back to awareness as the low-hanging branch of a tree scrapes his sleeve. 

Loki is heading off the trail and too close to the edge of the forest. 

He breaks a kiss and assesses the situation, realizing why — Castiel has turned so much in the saddle to kiss him that his right knee is pressing into Loki’s side, and without direction from the reins (which Castiel seems to have dropped), the horse is using that as a sign to turn.

Dean laughs.

“Cas,” he says, leaning in to kiss his lips before pulling back again. “We– we should get back to the manor and then…”

“And then?” Castiel asks.

Dean’s hands go to his cheeks as he kisses Castiel again once. Twice. He smiles, and in the light of the moon Castiel smiles wistfully in return. “Then we find someplace to continue this, my lord.” 

“Dean, I’m not a—”

“Not a lord, I know. But what if it pleases me to call you that?”

He doesn’t know why he said it – why he feels it. There’s just something inside him that wants to submit, to kneel before Castiel and offer up everything, body and soul.  

Castiel doesn’t answer – just looks at him, eyes flicking over Dean’s like he doesn’t know what to say, and Dean feels the blood rush to his cheeks and wonders if he’s really messed up this time…if after comparing each other to shapes and kitchen tools for God’s sake he’s finally said something so stupid that this is what makes Castiel realize he’s been kissing a fool — an unworthy one at that. 

But then Castiel’s eyes drift to his lips, and he leans in slowly, kissing him softly.

“Then I’ll try to be worthy of you,” he says finally, as if making a solemn vow, and Dean knows that any minute he’s going to wake up, because people don’t say things like this to Dean – not really – not unless they are pretending. But with soft, warm lips, Castiel is kissing Dean once more, and for once Dean feels like it's safe to believe.

Castiel breaks the kiss with a smile against Dean’s mouth, and as he pulls away, there’s a look of tenderness in his eyes. With one last peck on Dean’s lips, Castiel turns his body in the saddle to start toward home.

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist. Castiel holds them a moment with his own, giving Dean’s hand a brief squeeze, then picks up the reins again. 

They have to get back to the manor, but Dean finds he can’t help but want more of Castiel – now — to be closer, to feel Castiel’s skin on his. He adjusts the cloak once again so that it wraps around Cas to keep him warm and nuzzles against the curve of his neck, the soft curls of Castiel’s hair, and the warmth of his skin against Dean’s cheek. 

His lips skirt the soft, fine hair at the base of Castiel’s neck, and Cas lets out a soft breath. He adjusts himself, settling back against Dean, but now he’s close — so close their bodies are pressed against each other in the saddle, and Cas must be able to feel what he’s doing to him – how hard Dean is. 

Castiel shifts again, and God’s teeth – is he trying to kill Dean? Because maybe it’s the gait of the horse, but it feels as if Castiel is purposely rocking against him, his perfect ass pressing against Dean’s embarrassingly hard cock again and again. 

Dean’s fingers are splayed across Castiel’s stomach, and even through his tunic he can feel his abdominal muscles working. 

Alright then…Cas is doing this on purpose…

Dean sucks in a breath as Cas moves against him again — his ass grinding against Dean’s erection. “Ohh–fuck!” he whispers. He runs his hands over Castiel’s chest, lips finding the lobe of his ear. 

Cas answers with a half-laugh half-moan, his head tipping back, and Dean can see his eyes are closed, his breath coming in short little bursts as Dean kisses him. Dean grinds his hips forward and Castiel arches his back slightly and lifts again in the saddle, as if he’s seeking the hard press of Dean’s cock against his ass – slotting between his cheeks and Dean’s breathing harder now with a vision of Castiel in his bed, Dean on his back, looking up, his hands on Castiel’s hips as Cas rides him, squirming and grinding down onto his cock.

Fuck— he’s so close. They need to stop.

“Cas–” he gasps. But Castiel is holding Dean’s arms in place against his stomach as he grinds back again.

“Cas!” he moans again, on the verge of losing control, “Cas, Sweetheart —”

Castiel suddenly falls back hard against his chest and the world is upended —  they are falling together –  feet thrown to the sky. 

“Oooof!”

There’s a triumphant peal of laughter as they land with a crunch in the snow. Loki rears again with a chortling neigh that sounds more like some ill-omened imp than a sound any equine would make.

“Dean! Are you alright?” Cas calls as Loki stomps the earth with his foreleg.

Dean pushes himself to a sitting position and looks over at Cas, whose hair and tunic are dusted with clumps of snow but is otherwise in one piece and he can’t help himself – whether from the absurdity of it, or lack of sleep or just the sheer fact that he’s giddy with love, he just laughs – he laughs and laughs until his side hurts and tears are freezing on his cheek, and as he wipes his eyes Castiel is laughing with him — a deep throaty laughter, and Dean wants to wrap himself up in it.

Loki huffs like he’s tired of their shit and stamps his foot again uncovering a patch of grass beneath the snow on which to chomp.

Their laughter begins to fade and they catch their breath. 

Dean sits, eyes flicking over Castiel’s face - searching for any sign of regret. Castiel just looks back at him, worrying his lip. There are questions in his eyes, and Dean knows by now that the crinkle between Castiel’s brows could mean anything.

Castiel rises, coming to his knees beside Dean, and lifts his hands to cup his face, then leans in and kisses him tenderly, yet chastely, on the lips.

“Forgive me,” Cas says, releasing Dean and sitting back on his heels. “I was…that was… crude of me to…to–”

Dean laughs. “You didn’t act alone…In case you didn’t notice, I was an enthusiastic participant.”

Castiel cants his head as if observing some strange detail in him, and Dean can feel the blood rushing to his face again. It’s lunacy… he’s been with scores of women and dozens of men, so why does Cas constantly make him feel so shy about all of this? 

“We’d better get back,” Castiel says finally, standing and offering Dean a hand up. “And as much as I want to continue this, you should sleep.”

Dean allows Castiel to pull him up, then swallows over the lump that's formed in his throat, nodding. This is the part where Castiel realizes his mistake – the part where Dean is dismissed.

“Hey!” Castiel’s hand is on his chin, tipping it up so that Dean can’t hide himself. “Whatever it is you’re thinking right now – stop!  I, too, want to… ‘continue this’, as you said. But you’ve not slept — besides, considering our venture to the village tonight, it would be best if we go to our quarters for now as we always do, as if it’s just an ordinary night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will find you.”

“Promise?” Dean asks, knowing full well how presumptuous it is for him to ask for anything.

Castiel smooths back a few stray hairs from Dean's forehead and smiles.

“Per ma vida, qu’eu soi vostre.”By my life, I am yours.

“What –” Dean shakes his head, trying to sort the Occitan, but he can’t quite place it. “What does that mean?”

“It means… I promise.”

Castiel smiles at him as if he is looking at a wonder of the world, and Dean breathes a laugh. “All right then.”

He unclasps Castiel’s cloak. “Thank you for this,” he says, swirling it around to clasp it over Castiel’s shoulders. “But we’re almost to the manor, and you’d better wear it through the gates, lest the guards mark your return as strange.”

“It’s well past midnight. I don’t think I can avoid being thought of as strange, riding out so late and coming back at this hour. Let's hope the guards understand the struggle of sleepless nights.”

Dean nods, reaching for Loki’s reins. “Come on, you demon beast! Let’s get you to bed as well.”

Before they start back, Dean pauses and glances at Castiel. He holds his breath and, gathering his courage, holds out his free hand.

Castiel’s shy smile as he takes Dean’s hand lets him breathe again, and Dean just knows he’s blushing and grinning like a mooncalfdreamy fool.

 

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Notes:

Translations/definitions:

"Per ma vida, qu’eu soi vostre." - "By my life, I am yours." (Occitan)

Mooncalf - Dreamy fool / love-struck fool (archaic English)

Chapter 22: The Eighth Day of Christmas - Part II - Cornered

They part with a kiss at the crumbled patch of wall. 

“See you later, my lord.”

“Dean!” Castiel rolls his eyes, but he can’t hold back his grin. Dean throws him a wink that makes Castiel’s chest flutter and heat coil in his belly.

He watches as Dean climbs the wall and, with one last wave, disappears behind it before continuing on toward the manor. He’s made it back before the guards have changed and is greeted by Ulrich once again. 

“I was starting to worry about you, young Master,” he sighed in relief. “I’m nigh to be relieved and was about to go out looking for you myself.”

“I’m quite alright, Ulrich,” he smiles. “And I confess the ride and chill have made me long for bed. I think I might finally be able to sleep.”

With one or two more pleasantries exchanged, Castiel leads Loki back to his stall in the goat barn and, after settling him down for the night, heads back toward the manor. 

He’s crossing the empty courtyard when a figure hurries toward him. It’s Jo!

“Castiel! Come quickly!” She reaches out a hand to pull him along toward the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Lord Zachariah! Someone was seen taking food from the pantry, and he is accusing Dean of having been lurking about to steal it. He’s even woken Lord Charles!”

“Putain de merde!”Fucking shit!

Castiel runs the evening back in his mind. They thought they were being careful  — watchful as they left. Had Zachariah seen them?

  Shit! Shit! 

“Wake Gabriel – and Crowley!” Castiel snaps, already running toward the kitchen yard.

“I’ll get Gabriel. Crowley is already there!” she yells back, running back across the courtyard to the main entrance to the manor.  

Castiel bursts through the side door of the kitchen.  

Lord Zachariah is arguing with Crowley and Michael, who spares him a glance before turning back to Zachariah. 

“He is ill. You should not have sent for him! I am perfectly capable of dealing with this!” Michael growls at Zachariah. 

Dean kneels before them all near the hearth, the weighty hand of a guard - one at each shoulder - keeping him in place, a look of shame haunts him as he meets Castiel’s gaze. “Cas–”

“Release him!” Castiel demands, approaching the trio.

“What’s going on?” Lord Charles crosses the threshold, one arm supported by Bartholomew, with Lord Alastair in tow. “What is so urgent that it cannot wait until morning?”

“A thief in our midst, Lord Charles,” Zachariah announces, chin high. “One who might just as soon take our purses and cut our throats as we slept if he is so bold as to steal from the very man who so generously feeds him.”

“Is that so?” Lord Charles’ eyes narrow on Dean. “What theft? How did you come by this information Lord Zachariah?”

“I was taking in some evening air in the courtyard earlier this evening, when I saw this miscreant lurking in the shadows near the kitchen.”

“Pardon me, my lord, but walking in the courtyard is no offense, last time I knew,” Crowley interjects. “Else you’d be guilty of it too by your own admission, Lord Zachariah.”

Dean’s head is bowed.

“Is that true?” Charles demands of Dean.

“No! It isn’t true!” Castiel interrupts before Dean can answer, making every eye in the room turn toward him. 

By now, a small crowd has gathered. A few servants, Gabriel, and Brother Robert have appeared. Samandriel, Ed, and Harry, who must have heard the ruckus from their storeroom quarters, are looking on with interest and concern. 

“What do you know about this?” Charles demands.

“I saw Dean and Lord Zachariah talking in the courtyard, but he came back inside with me. I had questions about the revels that our family is to be in charge of today.” He casts Gabriel a pleading look.

Gabriel rolls his eyes.

“You said Michael had questions!” Zachariah huffs.

Michael’s brows rise.

“I was sure he must have – our family having had the responsibility of today’s revels thrust upon him by our brother, Gabriel,” Castiel says quickly. “At least I did, and thought Michael too might benefit from Dean’s expertise.” 

“Cassie’s always been the nervous one,” Gabriel sighs, stepping forward. “But he’s right. I did impose the role upon my dear brothers without notice. So…when I spoke to Cassie about it, I sent Dean to get some rest and assured them both we’d meet with Michael about it this morning.” He glances at Michael with a smirk. “Though I never imagined I’d be woken at this god-forsaken hour.”

“Assuming that’s true,” Zachariah sneers as if he doesn’t believe a word of it, “that left plenty of time for him to return to the kitchen and steal. Zachariah grabs the arm of a young servant, hauling her in front of the crowd. “And this maid says she saw him stalking around the kitchen in the late hours. Go ahead,” he nods to the terrified girl. “Tell Lord Charles who you saw.”

“I… I saw someone, m’lord,” she says, haltingly. “A...a man I think –with medium build…about this high.” She raises her hand indicating a height some inches taller than herself. “He had a sack on his shoulder and left through the side door…though it was dark, m’lord… I–” The girl looks regretfully at Dean. “Forgive me, I cannot be certain who it was…”

“That could have been anyone she saw!” Castiel says. “It could have been me!”

“Nonsense!” Zachariah laughs. 

“Lord Charles, if I may,” Crowley pleads. “You have fed us well. Dean has no reason to steal from you. Where would he even put what he stole? You may search our quarters.”

“He could have stashed it anywhere,” Zachariah huffs. “For later.”

“What exactly was taken?” Charles snaps testily.

“I can’t be certain, m’lord,” the girl says, “But there has been some ale taken, and the apple bin was full yesterday, but it is quite low this morning.”

“Apples and ale.” Gabriel shakes his head. “How many drunken knights fell asleep in the Great Hall that could have come looking for more food and pocketed some apples?"

“You said there was more!” Zachariah warns the girl.

“Lord Charles, if I may,” Alastair interjects, "let me question the boy and the maid. “I’m sure I can jar her memory, and if the boy is guilty I’ll have his confession soon enough. I have a certain expertise in these things, as you know.”

“There’s no need!” Castiel proclaims, silencing the accusers and once more drawing all eyes to him. “I took the food…and the ale. Let the musician go, and the girl be about her business." 

Dean looks at him, wide-eyed. “Cas!” he protests, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.

Castiel shakes his head at him just a fraction, eyes intense with the command to stand down. It’s barely a movement, but he prays Dean understands. 

Dean seems to note it, for he presses his lips together and turns troubled eyes to the floor.

“Don’t be absurd!” Zachariah scoffs. “Look! The guilt is written all over his face!”

“Well?” Lord Charles asks, turning to Dean. “You have not spoken up for yourself. Why were you out and about in the dead of night?”

Dean looks at Lord Charles, then Castiel, and back.  He opens his mouth to speak.

“You’re wasting everyone’s time. I already told you, it was me and I’ll not have someone else blamed for it.” Castiel insists, desperate to get Dean away before his father passes judgment on him. “Moreover, I can tell you exactly what was taken. In addition to the missing apples, you’ll find two pins of cider, six dried hamhocks, and several pounds of dried peas and beans, and some flour have been taken.”

“That’s absurd! You’re a de Devin. Why on earth would you of all people have to sneak in the dark to take food?” Zachariah scoffs.

“Why on earth are you so desperate to accuse Dean of the act?” Castiel demands, stepping up to Zachariah.

“Oh,” Zachariah puts up his hands in mock apology. “Dean, is it? I wasn’t aware you were on a first-name basis with the little whore.”

“Don’t!” Dean cries out as Castiel lunges for Zachariah but is pulled back by Gabriel. 

 

“What kind of game are you playing, boy?” Lord Charles demands walking toward his son. “Trying to protect the pretty songbird?” He laughs, “You expect me to believe you were lurking in the dead of night stealing food from your own household? To what purpose? Go to bed, boy!”

“To put things right, Father,” Castiel says. “To defy your merciless, unjust orders,” he adds, hoping to draw his father’s fury away from Dean. “Abandoning the people of Lowfield in their need would’ve brought God’s wrath down on you. Perhaps you were trying to convey strength before Lord Zachariah, but all either of you have shown is cruelty before God, so yes —  you could say I was trying to ‘protect’ someone.” Castiel’s mouth curves. “You did secure me a place at St. Cuthbert’s to look out for your immortal soul, did you not?”

“GODDAMN YOU BOY!” Charles rages. “YOU WILL BE WHIPPED AND PROSTRATE YOURSELF BEFORE GOD FOR THIS OUTRAGE! ‘THOU SHALT HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER!’ IS THAT NOT SO BROTHER ROBERT?”

“Careful, Father,” Castiel says calmly, before Bobby can respond. “That same passage warns ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’”

“GUARDS! RESTRAIN MY ERRANT BASTARD OF A SON!” Charles fumes, red-faced.

The guards glance at one another, uncertain, perhaps about what to do with their current captive.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR! MICHAEL!” Charles yells as the guards quickly release Dean and take hold of Castiel. “YOU WILL DISCIPLINE YOUR BROTHER! TWENTY LASHES!”

Crowley has quickly replaced the guards at Dean’s shoulder as they scurry to take hold of Castiel, and is pulling him up. Castiel hears Dean’s muffled “No! No!” as Crowley blocks him and pushes him to the periphery of the scene.

Michael’s jaw is tight, but his eyes are wary as he looks from Castiel to Gabriel. Finally, his eyes land on the floor, and he swallows. “Father, I—”

“I’ve given a command! Why do you hesitate!” 

“Forgive me, Father. Castiel was right about the village. I rode there yesterday to see the state of affairs after he made his petition. Without intervention…Father, I too, believe the assistance cannot wait until Yule’s end. I was planning to send provisions tomorrow — which now is… today.”

Castiel’s brows rise, his head whips around to find Michael, tight-lipped, looking between Lord Charles and him with troubled eyes. 

“You are my heir and will be the next Master of this place.” Charles seethes. “I’ve given you power to manage this estate, not Castiel!” Charles reminds him. His voice is still clipped with a tone of command, but the shouting is done, as if his explosion of anger has drained him of his power. Lord Charles seems to sag now. “While I live, I am the law of this manor, as one day you shall be too. You of all people should know that such open defiance cannot be tolerated!”

Alastair chuckles, “Ah, this new generation. All of them, so in love with poetry and drink. They just don’t have the same stomach to rule as we did when we were their age, do they, Charles? Too much pampering by their mothers, I fear.”

Gabriel’s head snaps up. “Remind me, in which campaign did you see the field of combat, Lord Alastair? Was it Wales? Scotland? Oh…that’s right,” Gabriel saunters toward him with a thin smile. “I forgot. You spent your time in King Henry's dungeons by day and the comfort of his palace by night.”

“GABRIEL!” Charles fumes, “I will not have you insulting my guests.”

Alastair steps forward. “I’m merely offering to help. If the boy cannot discipline his brother, perhaps I should attend to it for him.”

“Watch who you call a ‘boy,’ Lord Alastair,” Michael warns, fixing Castiel with a stony gaze. “This is a family matter. I will tend to it. Guards! Escort Castiel to the chapel. There, my brother will be punished for defying our father and will make his penance before God.” 

Dean looks at Castiel, the grief in his eyes is plain. He opens his mouth to speak but Crowley whispers something in his ear. Dean blanches and Castiel tries to throw him a reassuring look, but there are so many eyes on them both. Dean’s eyes are glassy with tears as Crowley grabs him by the arm and pulls him away and out into the courtyard.

Castiel is marched from the kitchen, past his father, whose eyes are dark with fury, but ringed with exhaustion. For a brief moment, he feels a regret – not for having defied his father, but that it has to be this way between them in his last days. 

Still, let his father rage. His decision was cruel. Castiel thinks of Anla and her skeletal frame. Dean was right, and Castiel will gladly bear his father’s wrath alone. Any punishment assigned to Dean would have been exceedingly worse.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you're thinking!

Chapter 23: The Eighth Day of Christmas - Part III - Arcanum

Summary:

In a dark chapel, three brothers face the secret that’s kept them apart.

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The chapel is cold as the guards thrust Castiel past the threshold. The soft light of the Yule candles flicker on the altar. He can't help a small smile when he sees them, even as he’s forced to his knees on the cold stone floor. The glare of the guards’ torches overpowers the candlelight, but cannot diminish its promise. He thinks of that evening here, when he’d come here confused, seeking guidance from the saint, and found Dean’s quiet companionship.

Whatever happens going forward, he’s already gotten his wish – the person who anchors him. The person to whom he belongs. The person his presence here keeps safe. An act of solidarity, protection…of love.

Even though their time together is short, Castiel is grateful for Dean, who sees him, who lets him feel again without guilt or shame - the answer to his Christmas prayer. And no tribunal’s glaring torches will ever make him forget the gifts of this Yule. 

“What do you have to be smiling at?” Charles sneers.

Castiel’s jaw tightens, his lips press into a resigned line as he meets his father’s eyes.

“Godric, bring a switch,” Michael commands one of the guards. He turns to Castiel. “Strip off your cloak and tunic,” he mutters.

Castiel’s eyes drift to Michael, retaining the same challenge they had for his father, unwavering as he complies. He removes his cloak and tosses it to Gabriel, who stands nearby. He unfastens his belt next and casts it aside, sliding it away from him. Its buckle and the seax strapped to it clank on the cold stone floor.

“What is that?” Charles demands, pointing to the blade. 

Castiel’s eyes flick to Charles.

“Bring it here,” Charles motions to the guard, who retrieves it and places it in Charles’ hands. “Your mother must have given you this,” he remarks. “A weapon of peasants and churls,” he huffs, handing it back to the guard, “Get rid of it.”

“What? No!” Castiel cries out. “It’s mine!”

“Yours?” Charles shouts. He steps forward, smacking Castiel with the back of his hand. Castiel feels the sting where Charles's ring breaks the skin of his cheek. “ Nothing’s yours! Except what you have by my generosity. Your failure to understand that is why we are here in the first place!” He turns to Michael. “Get on with it.”

Michael’s jaw is tight, his eyes to the floor. They lift to Castiel.

“Must I have the guards tear your tunic from you, Castiel?” he asks tiredly.

Castiel huffs and pulls his tunic over his head, along with the plain linen shirt beneath. There's a draft in the chapel as the door opens that sends a shiver through him where he kneels in just his chausses. It’s the guard, returning with a length of birch. 

“You should go back to bed, Father,” Michael says, coming to stand behind Castiel. “Take your rest. I will see that he is punished.”

“Nonsense. Get on with it,” Charles commands.

Castiel breathes in and fixes his eyes on the flame of a Yule candle. 

It's worth it, he tells himself.

Whatever scars he may be left with, the village of Lowfield is fed. Anla is fed, and Dean, his Yule flame, is safe.

He presses his lips together, steeling himself as birch whistles through the air. The flames of the Yule candles flicker as it lands like a firebrand  – once, twice, three times, a fourth. 

“Lord Charles,” Brother Robert speaks up, and Michael pauses. “Surely the boy’s worst offence was his disrespect to you, not in the theft itself. If the town was in such dire conditions as your own heir attests, surely Christ, who once wielded a whip against moneylenders in the Temple would show mercy in light of your son’s motives.”

“I will not have my authority interfered with, Brother Robert. He will be yours to discipline soon enough. Until then, he will learn obedience and respect.” He clutches Bartholomew’s arm for support, his breath labored.

“Father,” Michael says quietly. “It is late. Let Bartholomew escort you back to your bed. Brother Robert, Lord Zachariah, Lord Alastair, I thank you for your help in attending to this theft. It is a family matter now.”

“I count on you to see it done, Michael,” Lord Charles agrees. “I want Castiel brought to me when his penance is done.”

With that, he turns and allows Bartholomew to guide him from the chapel. Brother Robert follows. 

“We are happy to stay to witness justice,” Alastair smiles.

“You would insult my brother by suggesting he can’t be trusted to carry out justice in his own home?” Gabriel huffs.

“Thank you, Lord Alastair, but as this is a sensitive family matter, I insist you leave us. I have words to speak with my errant brother privately.” 

Zachariah huffs, and Alastair raises an eyebrow, but at Michael’s insistent stare, they reluctantly begin filing past Castiel.

“Lord Zachariah,” Castiel calls, “A moment,”

“Castiel,” Michael warns, but Castiel ignores him.

Zachariah’s expression is smug as he approaches, perhaps expecting something in the way of an apology.

“Well?”

Castiel speaks calmly. “There’s an inn, not half a day’s ride to the west of here on the post road. I believe the journey from there to your estate is only a day or so more.”

“I’m familiar with it. What of it?”

“You and Lord Alastair arrived together. You both should ride out together, and soon, to make it home before the coming storm.”

Zachariah’s brow is pinched, an incredulous smirk on his lips. “What are you talking about? Why should I leave now?”

“Because the kitchen was full of servants, and guests tonight. People will talk of this, and as the telling of it spreads, they will wonder why you were so intent on accusing the musician, even in the face of my confession. They will wonder what made it so personal.” His eyes flick down, pointedly, before meeting Zachariah’s again.

“That’s absurd,” Zachariah huffs, looking at the others. “I sought nothing more than that justice be served!”

Castiel smiles, but his eyes narrow on Zachariah. 

“You and I know that, of course, but just suppose someone witnessed you arguing with him in the courtyard… suppose they concluded you were trying to coerce the young man into doing something against his will…something against nature’s order, even. Court gossip can be insidious, Lord Zachariah, I should know. But those who are out of sight are often out of mind.”

“How dare you! You little tart!”

“Now, now Zachariah,” Alastair soothes, with a hand on his arm. “Don’t let him upset you.” 

He releases Zachariah, then leans in close to Castiel’s ear and whispers, “Don’t mind Zachariah. Once I told him how sweetly the little bird sings when he’s broken, he’s been dying to hear it for himself. Some other time, I suppose.”

Castiel surges to his feet, grabbing hold of Alastair’s robe. “You vile piece of shit!” 

“Castiel! Enough of this!” Michael yanks Castiel away, but Alastair is laughing and smoothing his robe.

“My apologies, Lord Alastair, Lord Zachariah,” he says.

“No need, Michael. I think we can forgive the boy his lapse of reason. It’s not uncommon in one so young to think with his cock instead of his head, all the more so, I’d imagine, when a life of celibacy looms.”

“Please! Leave us!” Michael nods toward the door. 

Zachariah is red-faced, Alastair smirking as he strolls toward the door to the chapel.

“Come on, Zach. Let us leave Lord Charles’ pups to scrap things out on their own.”

They are alone in the chapel —  the three brothers.

Gabriel laughs. “The balls on you, Cassie! After all of that, you send Zachariah scurrying like a mouse from a kitchen maid’s broom! Too bad you let Alastair get under your skin with whatever he whispered in your ear.”

“Yes! Hilarious!” Michael sneers. “It seems Castiel has become a contender for your title as the family’s biggest fool!”

“What are you waiting for?” Castiel hisses defiantly, “Finish it!” He sinks back to his knees, fixing his eyes again on the flame and steeling himself for the rest of his ordeal. 

Michael lets out a long breath and then moves into position. He readies himself to deliver the next lash, but Gabriel grabs his wrist to stay his hand.

“What in God’s name are you doing? They’re gone!” Gabriel asks, incredulous.

“He foolishly went against Father’s will!”

“Oh, yes! And God forbid any of us do that! Even if it’s just the thing to do. You said yourself, Castiel was right, but go ahead, Michael. Put Anael’s child under your lash! If she’s watching from Heaven, I’m sure she’d be proud of you for keeping her son on the righteous path,” he spits.

Michael grits his teeth and lets out a frustrated roar that has Castiel turning just in time to see his brother break the switch and hurl it across the room.

He stares in shock as Michael rages.

“Why can you not know your place, Castiel! If you had only asked me instead of playing the righteous martyr and sneaking everything from the pantry, I would have told you I’ve already put stores aside for the village to be brought to them by first night.”

Castiel blinks, shocked.

“How could I have known?” he yells back finally. “All you ever do is ignore me or show your disdain for me! When have you ever regarded me as a brother?”

“You knew Castiel was right to have acted, and still you couldn’t stand up to Father.” Gabriel shakes his head at Michael, his cheeks reddened with anger.

“What would you have me do? Refuse? And allow Alastair to wield the whip? Do you think they are here as friends of our father, Gabriel? Zachariah? Alastair? Ishim? Their holdings surround ours like a noose! They are here as the devil’s hounds, sniffing for any weakness, while our father lay dying. I am the heir! What’s left of his reputation must remain intact! Our family cannot afford to appear anything less than equally ruthless!”

He points an accusing finger at Castiel. “Fool that you are, you humiliated Father with your defiance in front of the servants and guests. He had no choice but to exact punishment!”

“He’s no fool,” Gabriel mutters. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you, Cassie? I wonder, did you really carry out this entire misadventure all by yourself?”

Castiel lifts his chin defiantly, refusing to confirm even a hint of anyone else’s involvement. Not even to Gabriel.

Gabriel laughs. “No need to answer, little brother. Your silence tells me everything. And you!” he says, turning sharply toward Michael. “Now that we are having this brotherly tête-à-tête, perhaps it’s time for you to acknowledge the real reason you can barely stand to be in the same room with our brother.”

“Don’t!” Michael warns, his fists clenching, but Gabriel barrels on.

“Castiel isn’t our father’s humiliation. He’s yours!”

“What?” Castiel squints.

“Because rather than rage against the injustice our father did to you, you kissed his ring and played the good son,  and pretended Anael was the faithless one.”

“Gabriel, by God and his Saints, I’m warning you–”

“What is he talking about?” Castiel stands, eyes flicking warily from Michael to Gabriel and back. The world seems to spin. “Gabriel, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing!” Michael shouts. “Our brother is a drunkard and a fool! Go to bed, Gabriel! Sleep off whatever spirits have addled your already twisted mind before you say something you can’t unsay and I do something we’ll all regret!”

But Gabriel only smirks, stepping toe to toe with Michael, pinning him with his eyes. “Ask our brother about his betrothal, Cassie. Not the one our father arranged between him and Hester — the one before that.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael seethes. His face is contorted with anger. “You were a child!”

Castiel stares in shock as his brothers attack one another.

“Yes, I was a child, and as such, in her care,” Gabriel steps closer. “And I remember well the way you two danced around each other — the way her smile would brighten whenever you walked in the room. How her steps grew lighter.”

Gabriel shakes his head, “I idolized you. Both of you! I remember how you’d wink at me, finger to your lips like we shared a secret, then ruffle my hair before taking her hand and pulling her along the hedgerows for a private moment. I remember when you weren’t the cold monolith of stone our father made of you, after he stole her from you! When he took your betrothed for his own!”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” 

“Stop!” Castiel yells, pushing between Gabriel and Michael as his eldest brother surges forward to land a blow. 

“That’s it! Isn’t it?” Gabriel accuses, relentless now in his attack. “You can barely look at Cassie because every time you do, you are reminded of everything our father took from you! You look at him, and are reminded of what should have been yours!”

Castiel feels the blood drain from him. He stares at Michael, whose angry glare crumples to a mask of grief. 

His brother’s proud chin lifts, but he lowers his gaze to the floor, and for a moment, Castiel can barely recognize him. He’s only ever seen his brother as some cold, judgmental elder, not as an ordinary man, pained and… broken. 

A moment passes when the only sound is the faint rush of the torchlight.

No one moves. But in the silence, Castiel’s heart is thundering in his chest as the truth rises, cresting over him like a drowning tide. A hundred questions flood his mind at once, choking him. He can’t think. He can’t speak. 

Even Gabriel seems mute now, taken aback by the change his words have wrought.

Michael is the first to break the silence. His eyes, red rimmed and glassy, are still fixed on the stone at their feet. 

“You—” he starts, addressing Castiel, his voice raw, rasping over stone. “You will humble yourself before the Lord, forehead to the stone, as Father has commanded, or I will send your accomplice away. In the morning… you will beg our father’s forgiveness.”

“Michael—” Gabriel starts.

“As for you, Gabriel,” Michael stops. He takes a slow, measured breath. When he speaks again, his voice is still strained, as if strangled by memory’s ghost. “Do not speak her name. Or anything of her. Not to me. Not ever again.”

With that, Michael turns and goes.

Castiel watches, too stunned to form words, as his brother slams the wooden door of the chapel behind him.

And in the wake of Michael’s leaving, Castiel can’t remember how to breathe. 

 

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Notes:

Arcanum - Secret knowledge

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Chapter 24: The Eighth Day of Christmas - Part IV - Confessions

Notes:

Thank you so much to my betas, Sarah and Lexi, and to all of you who have commented, kudo'd and subscribed!

TW – allusions to possible past non-consensual situations (not depicted).

'Receipt' is an old-timey word for recipe.

 

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Dean reaches the door of the crowded run-down croft the troupe has called home these past seven nights. Crowley is at his back with a fist full of Dean’s clothing, marching him like an errant child to his chamber, and perhaps he deserves it.

 

There’s no perhaps.

 

Dean knows it’s the least he deserves. 

 

It’s nearly dawn, and all he can think about is Cas. What will happen to him? How will Dean ever be able to face him again, leaving him there to take the blame for what Dean did?

 

They reach the door, and Crowley shoves him over the threshold. He trips over Ash but rights himself before he can fall on the crowded floor full of bodies.

 

“What in God’s name were you thinking!” Crowley seethes. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. His voice is the edge of a blade. “Do you know what your little jaunt in the countryside could have cost us all?”

 

“I’m sorry. I–”

 

“You’re sorry?” he sneers.

 

The others are waking up, shifting to watch silently. All except Sam, who blinks himself awake and jumps to his feet, taking hold of his brother’s arm.

 

“Dean! What happened? Are you alright?”

 

“Oh, he’s alright!” Crowley answers before Dean can say a word. “You can thank the earl’s son for that! Your brother, the lackwit, had the notion to steal from Lord Charles’ pantry, then went and got himself caught!”

 

“Those people were starv—”

 

“Starving! Yes!” Crowley spits. “Welcome to England! Villagers are always starving! Tell me, how long do you think it will take for a musician to starve once he’s lost his hand? How long do you think it will take for the troupe to starve once we’ve been tossed on our arses from this manor without pay, because some addlepate among us decided to bite the hand that feeds us?”

 

“Cas and I—”

 

“I don’t want to hear another word! There is no ‘Cas and I!’ You and that clodpated swain of yours had no business doing anything with the manor’s provisions! How many times have I told you to never believe the stories you tell?”

 

Dean lowers his eyes. His gaze flicks around the room. Everyone is awake now and staring at the impromptu drama playing out before them. 

 

“Up! All of you!” Crowley yells, looking around at the troupe. “And be ready to play your roles today!”

 

“I thought we had a day off from the revels today?” Ash groans.

 

“There’s never a day off,” he warns, biting off each word like overstale bread. “You all will attend, and participate, and smile, and laugh at their ninny-brained jests. You’ll be polite. You’ll entertain, and be helpful and gracious at every turn. You’ll blend in! And none of you will step out of line even remotely. Are we clear?” His eyes sweep the room, daring anyone to say otherwise.

 

There are murmurs and groans of agreement around the room.

 

“Excellent! Then go! Up and out, and be ready to make yourselves useful!”

 

The troupe begins to file out. 

 

“Not you!” Crowley says, putting a hand to Dean’s chest.

 

“Crowley—”

 

“No! Don’t you say a word! You are to make yourself scarce today!”

 

“Please! I need to see if Cas is–”

 

“ARE YOU DEAF?” he asks, swatting Dean upside the head. “We’ll be lucky if the trouble you’ve stirred up with those lords doesn’t come down on all of our heads! You— you could have been HANGED!” he shouts furiously.

 

There’s a flicker of something more in Crowley’s eyes as he scrubs a hand over his mouth and jaw, and it’s gone almost as quickly as it came. 

 

Fear —

 

Dean realizes he’s never seen Crowley scared before. 

 

“You will stay here and have this place looking neater than the Temple of Solomon by the time we return. I don’t want to see you anywhere near whatever revels Gabriel and his brother cook up. Do you understand me?”

 

Dean swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yes,” he sighs. “But what about Cas?”

 

“Nothing you can do for him, is there?” Crowley snaps. “He knew what he was doing when he took the blame on himself, and a whipping is nothing compared to what they’d have done to you, so don’t get any noble ideas about confessing to your part in it. So help me God, Winchester, don’t make me regret taking you and your brother in!”

 

With that, he turns and strides out, slamming the door behind him.

 

Dean’s every instinct is screaming at him to bolt – to go to the chapel– throw himself at the mercy of Castiel’s family, but if he does, his own family will suffer for his misdeeds. 

 

Dean sinks to his knees on his pallet, then lies down and buries his face in the bundle of clothing he uses to pillow his head. He reaches inside and pulls at the leather cord. The feather still shimmers in blues, greens, and black, even with its shaft bent, its fletchings torn from when Alastair crushed it in his hand. 

 

He’d hidden it here, not wanting to lie to Castiel if he asked how it had been misshapen, but not wanting to tell him the truth either. 

 

“I’m so sorry, Cas,” he chokes, his eyes near to overflowing. He presses the feather to his chest as if it could somehow connect them.  “Fuck – I’m so sorry!

 

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When he was a child, Castiel fell into deep water.

 

For a brief moment, before the water filled his lungs, 

 

before the thrashing and choking — 

 

before the screaming and gasping for air —

 

there was peace….

 

A strange, weightless calm.

 

A distant voice calling his name.

 

The feeling of floating away…

 

“Cassie? Cas!” 

 

There are hands on his arms guiding him to the side of the chapel, and everything is suddenly too sharp and too loud and too heavy as he fights for breath — 

 

“Breathe, Cassie!”

 

He’s trying to stand – pushing past him — he has to get to—

 

“Michael!”

 

Gabriel’s arms are pulling him back.

 

“MICHAEL!”

 

“Cassie, calm down!” Gabriel orders.

 

He rounds on Gabriel, shoving off his grip.

 

“What did you mean!” he demands. “What does he have to do with our mother?.... Is he…” Castiel blanches.

 

“No! No!” Gabriel grabs his chin to force Castiel to see him. “He’s your brother… our brother, nothing more.”

 

“Jesus!” He grips his head like it might break open. “How long have you known?”

Gabriel sighs. He wanders to the back of the chapel, sinking down onto a wooden bench placed there for contemplation.

 

Castiel follows but is too on edge to sit. His back is burning, and Castiel wonders how he’d forgotten about the pain.

“Not long,” Gabriel answers. He looks up at Castiel, guiltily. “And yet, I should have known all along.” He huffs, shaking his head at some spot on the floor. “When I returned from the Holy Land the first thing I did was go straight home to Rachel and our children, or at least to what I thought was their home,” he adds bitterly. I didn’t know at the time that my children now resided with their mother’s family, and that my wife’s home was now a grave.”

 

There’s an ache in his heart for Gabriel. He was only eleven when Gabriel left for the East, but he remembers the letter Anael received from his brother about the birth of his second son, the way Gabriel’s words gushed with pride. 

 

“I slept there two nights, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay any longer – I felt her absence at every turn. So on the fourth morning I started packing for France. I went to the privy chamber to write a message to the boys when I found a pile of papers that had been left. Anael’s letter was among them.”

“She wrote to you? What did she say?”

“Only that she regretted many things, but never regretted raising me, and having and raising you. She asked me to look out for you, and for Michael. Looking out for you, I understood, but Michael? Why?” Gabriel shakes his head and huffs. “He’d been so cold to her before I’d left. He and Hester both. Hester despised her. Why should she wish me to look after him? It didn’t make any sense.”

 

“She cared for you like her own child, Gabriel. She must have just wanted you to have a full life — the support of your brothers, family. And Michael’s always been cold and haughty.”

 

“No, you’re wrong, Cassie.” He stands. “She said, ‘Beneath his pain lies a good man.’ What I said about the way she and Michael were with each other when I was younger, that’s true. But something shifted. After her letter, I tried piecing together my memories of that time. Michael had gone to finish his training. There was some uprising growing and rumor spread among the servants that several of the king’s men had been killed. A letter arrived and after that I remember raised voices in his chamber before one of the servants shuffled me away. Later I found our mother crying, and was afraid Michael had been one of the knights killed, but she dried her tears when she saw me and smiled, telling me not to worry. Michael was just fine. She took ill for a while after that.”

 

“When Michael returned home from fostering, Hester had already arrived. Anael smiled less, and more than once she shed tears when she thought no one was around, but when I’d ask, she’d blame it on dust,” he waves his hand to the air around them. “Motes in her eyes, she’d say. I was only six or so but I remember how Michael’s foul mood blanketed every room like fog. How she couldn’t meet his eyes. I wanted things to go back to the way they were, but Hester and Michael were married, and he left again to give service soon after that.”

 

Gabriel pulls absent-mindedly on the scruff on his chin. “When I was a bit older I got angry with him. Lady Hester had insulted Anael’s Saxon lineage, and her virtue and he sat stoically and said nothing. ‘Why must you both treat her so coldly?’ I’d asked. He’d said, ‘That Saxon witch was sent to corrupt us.’  

 

“She wasn’t a witch!”

 

“I know that! Even Michael knew that or he’d have called the priests in to take her. But something must have happened to turn his devotion into hatred. The only thing that’s ever made sense to me is that he believed himself jilted by her. That would explain the change in them both.”

 

“And there was more. You know why I left. Rachel and I fell in love, and we were reckless…careless. When I found out she was with child, I went to our father to inform him of my intention to marry her and asked his blessing. He was furious! He forbade me to leave or ever see her again. It was his ‘right,’ he’d said, to arrange my marriage for the benefit of our family, and that Lady Rachel was not suited. ‘Damn you and your brother both, for following your cocks over your duty to family,” he’d said.”

 

“Damn you and your brother both,” Gabriel repeats. “I didn’t think to question what he meant by it at the time. I was too busy planning my escape to elope with Rachel, but those were his words, sure as hair on an abbess's chin. Why would he say such a thing, unless Michael had taken a similar measure.”

 

Castiel’s brow pinches as he tries to sift through all Gabriel has said to find anything amounting to proof. He shakes his head. “It’s all speculative.”

 

“Maybe so,” Gabriel shrugs. “But it’s speculation based on keen observation, and our brother all but confirmed the truth of it just now.”

Castiel paces anxiously. “But our mother wasn’t careless or faithless! If they were betrothed she wouldn’t have broken it!”

“Cassie—”

Castiel shakes his head. “I— I don’t understand.”

“Cassie, I think you do,” Gabriel says, quieter now.

“My mother wouldn’t do that!” His eyes snap to Gabriel, shouting, “Our mother would never betray a trust like that!”

“I know.”

“She wouldn’t betray a trust like that unless—” His voice fails him.

“Unless she had no choice,” Gabriel finishes solemnly. He looks pointedly at Castiel, his face drawn with grief.

The meaning settles over Castiel like ice water. He stares at his brother, breathless. “You mean—”

“I think our father  gave her no choice.”

No! he thinks, even as his heart is telling him ‘Yes.’ Castiel’s chest is tight. His head is in his hands, eyes clamped shut as if he could shut out the vile truth. 

 

It’s too much! 

 

His eyes strain with the effort of holding in tears of fury and sadness – for the mother he lost  — for the pain and wrong she’d suffered. His heart aches with the possibility that he was a burden she couldn’t break free of — a living symbol of his father’s violence. When he finally pulls his hands away he’s careless of the tears.

 

“Then that means that… that I’m—”  

 

He can’t say it. Castiel falls silent.

 

“It means that she loved you so much, she gave everything to protect you. You were the joy of her life Cassie. I saw it. Never doubt that!”

 

He surges toward the door of the chapel. “He needs to pay for what he’s done!”

 

Gabriel holds him back.

 

“He is going to pay. He’ll stand before the throne of judgment soon enough. But if you go in there now, throwing accusations, you can bet our father will find some way to ruin you before he takes his last breath! You think St. Cuthbert’s is bad? You’ll have nothing!”

 

“What– what am I supposed to do with this, Gabriel?” he pleads for some answer. His hands lift, then hover in midair as if his brother could place the answer in them. They fall as Gabriel steps toward him, gripping his shoulder like an anchoring weight.

 

“Anael went to great lengths to protect you from the tyrant she knew our father to be. Stay out of his way for now and do your best to make peace with it. I’ll work on Michael. Agreed?”

 

Sighing, Castiel gives a reluctant nod. 

 

The door opens. They both turn as a guard enters.

 

“Forgive me, Lord Gabriel, Master Castiel,” he nods to each in turn. “I’ve been ordered by Lord Charles to make sure you are carrying out your penance.”

 

Castiel rises.

 

“For god’s sake, Durant!” Gabriel complains to the guard. “Are you going to stand over him?”

 

“I’m to check in at intervals and report back.”

 

“Christ!”

“No, it’s alright, Gabriel.” Castiel turns to Durant. “I was just making my apologies to my brother for…. for.” Castiel can’t think of an excuse, so gives up. He can barely think at all. He’s vaguely aware of the pain from the welts on his back, and his head aches. He stands in front of the altar and lies down in the penitential position. 

 

“Cassie–”

 

“What would you have me do, Gabriel? If I don’t finish this, Father will find another way to punish me. He’ll take it out on the troupe.”

 

“You mean take it out on De–”

 

“Don’t!” Castiel rises swiftly on his elbows, looking back sharply to stop him.

 

Gabriel’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick to the guard, then back to Castiel’s fearful gaze. He sighs, then crosses his arms and leans against the stone wall of the chapel. 

 

Castiel lowers himself again and lies face down on the cold stone. He closes his eyes. “I’ll do what I need to do for now, Gabriel. But this conversation isn’t finished.”

 

Gabriel huffs. “Fine.” He turns to the guard. “You can tell our father my brother is properly subservient.”

 

“Forgive me, Master Castiel,” Durant nods, distressed. 

 

Castiel turns his head to face the man who’d long been in their family’s service. “You’re doing your duty, I understand.”

 

Durant bows, then retreats, closing the door to the family chapel behind him. Gabriel wastes no time.

His brother sighs, hooking a thumb in his belt. “Wait a moment, Cassie.” He pushes off the wall, laying down Castiel’s cloak on the floor. “Lay on this at least so you don’t freeze your bollocks off on that floor.” 

 

“Michael won’t like it.” 

 

“Michael doesn’t like anything.”

 

Castiel sighs, lying back down on the ermine-lined cloak. “I can’t think, Gabriel. I— I just want to close my eyes and forget all of this…”

 

“I have to go. Is there anything you need for now?”

 

“Yes. Make sure Dean is safe, that Zachariah and Alastair stay away from him!”

 

“Of course. Anything else?”

 

“No,” Castiel whispers. “I just…need to think.”

 

“Well, you’ll certainly have plenty of time,” Gabriel answers grimly. “I’ll check on you later.”

 

₊❄️₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊❄️₊

 

Dean makes his way quietly to the chapel, bowl in hand. He pauses at the door, afraid his visit will be unwelcome — fearful of what he might behold in Castiel’s eyes. He pushes the door open the tiniest bit.

 

“Saint Æthelthryth…” he hears Castiel start, but Cas shakes his head and ends with a sigh, his breath puffing white in the cold stone chapel. 

 

Dean means to speak, but it seems wrong to disrupt Castiel’s prayer. He is about to back away when he stops. He peeks in as Castiel lies back down, resting his head on his crossed arms.

 

“Cas?” Dean whispers, pushing the door open a bit more.

 

Light from the torches in the corridor spills into the room, falling over Castiel as he turns his head toward Dean.

 

“Dean?” He pushes up again, looking over his shoulder.

 

Dean slips inside the dimly lit chapel, closing them both in darkness again. 

 

“Dean, you shouldn’t be here.”

 

From where he stands, Dean can see the red lines of drying blood that streak Castiel’s back. There are dark circles beneath his pained eyes. The sight twists his gut and makes him feel ashamed. He makes his way through the shadows until he’s close enough that the light of Yule candles illuminates his face. He can feel his stupid eyes about to spill over. He shifts the bowl to one hand, brushes the tears away with the other.  

 

“Cas—I’m so sorry I got you involved in this,” he manages to grate out as he kneels down.

 

Castiel looks up at him with a softness Dean doesn’t deserve. “I’m not,” he says, reaching out. 

 

Dean sniffs again to keep from spilling over and sets down the bowl he’s holding. He takes Castiel’s hand. Cas’s fingers are cold in his, gripping him tight like a lifeline. So much time out in the winter air and now in the cold chapel — Castiel should be snug somewhere warm instead of paying the price of Dean’s sins. “This is all my fault.” Dean takes Castiel’s hand in both of his and rubs to warm it. “I should be the one with a striped back, not you.”

 

Castiel brushes his thumb over Dean’s knuckles. “I don’t regret any of it, Dean. I knew from the moment I said yes that if we were caught I’d take the blame. Besides, Michael went easy on me. He’d have done much worse to you.”

 

Cas doesn’t get it. Dean’s such a fuck up, he just had an idea and went for it — pulling Cas along with him, no matter how risky or stupid it was. 

 

“Still, Cas, I didn’t— I never should’a—”

 

“Dean—” Castiel says, interrupting his thoughts, “thank you.”

 

“Why are you thanking me?” Dean squints. Castiel has clearly lost his mind.

 

“Because I’ve been lying here in the dark knowing I’m supposed to repent and pray– but with all that’s happened, I can’t find it in myself to ask the Lord for forgiveness…. but by coming you’ve reminded me what’s important. I might not have prayers of contrition, but as long as I am stuck here, I can pray for those who need God’s grace. For Anla…for the village.”

Dean sighs, but nods. He can’t exactly argue against prayer for the villagers.

 

He picks up the cloth and squeezes it. “Mildred gave me this to clean your wounds.” Dean’s eyes drift to Castiel’s back, then to his face again. He swallows. “Umm…may I?”

 

Castiel nods. “How bad is it?” he asks.

 

“Doesn’t look too bad, all things considered, though this one spot — it looks like the birch cut deep.” Dean dabs a spot beneath his right shoulder blade, cleaning it gently. 

 

Cas hisses, tensing at the burn as Dean brings the soaked cloth gently across his back. 

 

“Sorry!” Dean winces, putting a gentling hand on Castiel’s back below the cuts. “That’s the vinegar,” he explains. “This part—” Dean’s breath catches as he gently swabs a spot under his shoulder blade, “it looks like it might scar. Cas doesn’t deserve this. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault!

 

“Cas, I’m—”

 

“Dean!” Cas says, turning his head to catch Dean’s eyes before he can finish. “I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad we did what we did. So don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry…alright? They should be sorry,” Cas finishes, nodding toward the chapel door in the general direction of his family.

 

Dean’s heart aches. His throat is a giant knot. Still, though he cannot speak, he nods after a moment. 

 

“Here…” he manages finally, his voice a choked whisper. He rinses the cloth, squeezing it out again before resuming. “Let me clean the rest. Then Rowena’s balm will soothe you.” 

 

“Thank you.” Cas smiles, sinking down into the comfort of Dean’s presence and resting his head again on his crossed arms. 

 

“I was supposed to get twenty lashes, but Michael never finished. He only got to four when Brother Robert interrupted and then…” Cas closes his eyes and sighs. “Well, it’s a long story.”

Dean pulls a small jar from the pouch at his hip. He unstoppers it and gathers some of the creamy balm onto his fingers. It prickles with warmth and tingles with cold all at once. “This should dull the sting a bit.”

 

Castiel’s back is hot to the touch as his fingers glide along the welts on Castiel’s back, pressing and circling here, patting there — carefully avoiding the broken skin with his fingers. Rowena has taught him to be gentler there, to keep dirt from the wounds. 

 

Castiel hisses and tenses, and Dean slows, working the salve in slowly and gently. Moments pass, and finally, Castiel relaxes again beneath his fingers with an almost contented sigh. 

 

“Better?” Dean asks.

 

“At first it burned, but now it feels cool…like water from a spring.”

 

“Comfrey and mint. One of Rowena’s receipts.”

 

Cas hums. 

 

“What about you?” he asks, turning to watch as Dean stoppers the jar of salve and returns it to his pouch. “Are you all right? How’s Sam? Was Crowley cross with you?” His brow knits with concern.

 

“Sam’s doing well, and yeah,” Dean huffs a breath, eyes widening at the memory, “I don’t remember the last time I saw Crowley so angry — mad enough to spit daggers. He’s basically forbidden me to be anywhere near the revels today. Doesn’t want Lord Charles or anyone else deciding to ask any more questions.”

 

Castiel worries his lip, thinking. “You know, you shouldn’t be in here either. Who knows if Michael will decide to come back, or nosy Hester.” His eyes drift – his jaw tightens, as if troubled by something.

 

“What is it, Cas?”

 

“Huh?” he asks, snapping his eyes back to Dean.

 

“What’s got you looking so troubled like that?”

 

“Is this not trouble enough?” Cas teases.

 

Dean searches Castiel’s face for the answer. “No…there’s something else.”

 

Castiel averts his gaze, but Dean waits.

 

“It's — a long story,” he sighs after a moment. “I’m not even sure what to make of it.”

 

Dean pushes the bowl of water off to the side and slides down next to Castiel on the cold stone floor, propping himself up on his elbow. The right side of his mouth curves into a lopsided smile. “I got time. And don’t worry about Lady Hestor or even Michael, for that matter. I got a lookie-loo out there for us,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the door behind them.

 

“A wha— a lookie loo?” Cas squints, smiling at Dean’s absurd phrase.

 

“Yeah, you know, someone to keep watch and warn us if trouble’s on the way.”

 

“A— you mean a watchman?”

 

“Unless the watchman is a watch lass – or lady, or ‘watchmademoiselle’ or something,” Dean teases.

 

“Who?”

 

“You’re friend, Jo,” Dean grins. “She promised to stall anyone who comes this way and give a warning. Besides,” his smile slips into something more sheepish, reminded of his measure of responsibility for Cas’ predicament, “figured I might as well do some penance too.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, “I thought we both agreed the village needed our help.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not that, Cas,” he says quieter.  Dean sighs and worries his lip. 

 

“Then what is it?” Castiel asks gently, sounding genuinely curious. 

 

“Your father…I mean, I don’t think he was right to deny the village, and maybe he’s not the best person I've ever met, but…he’s sick and…” Dean hesitates. Something twists in his gut as his complex feelings over his own father muddy his thoughts. “I feel like I made more trouble for you. You’re here to… to be close to him as his health fails, and now there’s such discord between you both — and it’s my fault.”

 

Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand, long, elegant fingers curling over Dean’s. 

 

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel assures him in a choked whisper. “This discord, as you say, it’s….complicated.”

 

They lay quiet a moment, side by side. Dean doesn’t want to press Castiel for details, but stays silent, listening, an invitation to share.

 

“My memories of my father — well, I used to think his attention was like the warm sun shining down. He was away a lot in my childhood, and when he was home, he always had important business, and I stayed with my mother, but she would bring me to him sometimes. 

 

I remember learning letters in his study once, and sometimes being summoned to dinner in the great hall if we had guests. I didn’t think him ashamed of me then. I thought one day I’d grow to be a knight like Michael, like Gabriel, and then I could—”

 

Castiel presses his lips together. When he speaks again, it’s a raw and broken sound. “I guess I thought we would have more time together…and that I could please him by loyally serving him. But…now I think that most of my memories are born of wishes, and moments carefully curated by my mother. I think now, she may have shielded me from who he really was. When she died, I was sent away,” Castiel’s brows knit. “I don’t know anymore.”

 

“Why did he send you away?”

 

Castiel shrugs. “Fathers do that, don’t they. Noble ones, anyway. I was to be fostered at my uncle's house to see if I was fit for knighthood.” Cas laughs, and it’s bitter. “That was the official story anyway.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Remember the blacksmith at Dunwick?”

 

Dean huffs. “Kind of hard to forget,” he mutters.

 

“What?”

 

“Yes,” Dean nods. “I remember him. Ignatius?”

 

Castiel smiles sadly. “Inias,” he corrects gently, almost wistfully, and Dean’s stomach turns with the bitter fruit of jealousy. 

 

It’s selfish, Dean knows. He pushes it down now for Cas’ sake. “Who was he to you?”

 

A worried crease forms between Castiel’s brows. 

 

“It’s alright,” Dean gently assures. 

“When I was twelve, Inias and his mother came to our manor to work from one of the surrounding villages. We were outcasts. Both of us.

 

“Inias’ foot dragged when he walked,” Castiel explains. “And several of the boys on the manor — sons of a few of the guards– were cruel to him. They called him cursed. Gadreel fashioned a brace for his foot and gave him work in the stables. As for me, everyone knew I was only the lord’s bastard, and more interested in learning my mother’s craft than scrapping with the children of the guards.”

 

“Your mother– she taught you about medicines?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “That’s how I knew where the lungwort grows. She spent most of her days tending the gardens or foraging. When Hester complained about her taking space in the kitchen she made the old cottage into her workshop. She would deliver her tinctures and salves to people in the villages. Gadreel would ride along to guard us. They would offer us things in return but she refused to take any payment.” 

 

Castiel breathes a laugh, his face brightening with a memory. 

 

“An older woman handed me a little chick, once. It was so small. I pressed it against my cheek to feel the soft downy feathers. I wanted so badly to keep it but my mother wouldn’t let me. ‘These are our people, Castiel, ” she’d whispered. ‘We don’t take payment from them.’ I thought then that she’d meant they were father’s serfs, which they were. But later I realized she’d meant they were Saxons, like us – my mother and me.”

 

“Lots of noble families fell to ruin when the Normans came,” Dean muses. “I wonder how many farmers and farriers come from once noble blood?”

 

Castiel grins, “I notice that you included ‘farriers’ in your ponderings. Might I be in the presence of a descendant of some great Saxon prince, dispossessed of his lands?” he teases.

 

“Me?” Dean grins back. “Nah! Our blood’s too stubborn for that. They’d either have kept their rank with the new king or died trying. My father used to say there’s no shame in being common.”

 

Castiel nods, sobering. “And no inherent virtue in being noble, it seems.”

 

There’s a sudden darkness in Castiel’s eyes — he falls silent. Dean ponders that, then blinks when he realizes he’s been staring like a fool this whole time. 

 

“What happened to her?” he prompts, gently.

 

Castiel blinks as well, pulling himself away from Dean’s eyes and coming back to himself.

 

“The winter after Inias and his mother came, a fever swept through. My mother delivered her tinctures but nothing seemed to help. Then one day I was helping her forage for wild herbs and she almost fainted. By the time I got her back to the manor her skin was hot, and she was sweating, even though the winter air around us made clouds of our breath.”

 

Castiel hesitates. When he speaks again, his words are halting as if dragged past a stone in his throat.

 

“I called for help and brought her to her room. The servants helped her into bed and ran to alert my father.” He pauses, again to gather himself. “They tried to send me away, but she grabbed my hand before they could usher me from the room.” Castiel’s eyes drift, as if seeing the scene again in his mind. “She bade me promise to bathe right away…. warm water…steeped with rosemary and rue… and for sage to be burnt in all of the manor’s hearths. Sage and lavender.”

 

Castiel’s eyes are shimmering now, red and strained with unshed tears.

 

 “I— I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time I…the last time I would see her alive.” They spill as he blinks. He huffs, frustrated, and wipes them away. “I just wish I’d known then, you know? Everything was so rushed. I just wish I had stayed with her longer.”

“She was protecting you," Dean says after a moment. "You did what she would have wanted.”

“I know,” Cas shrugs. He smiles sadly.

 

Dean reaches out his hand again and Cas takes it.

 

“After that they kept me from her. Gabriel had already left on Crusade. Michael was protecting the King’s Peace in the south, and my father… Well he would smile at me gravely. Put his hand on my shoulder when I went to the chapel to pray. He’d ask me about my studies – but other than that we rarely spoke. Three days the fever raged in her. She was buried on the fourth.”

 

Castiel’s lips curve into a smile, but there’s no joy in it. Just a distant melancholy. 

 

“After that, my father didn’t seem to know what to do with me. So he went about his business and left me to just — carry on I guess.” Cas says, shaking his head. “I’d never felt so alone. Gadreel noticed. He started giving me tasks in the stables alongside Inias. I spent a lot of time there. Inias was about my age, and he was kind. Shy, but sweet, and funny.” 

 

Castiel smiles genuinely now. “He would make me laugh when no one else could.”

 

“But one day, some of those boys cornered him and decided to take out their misplaced frustrations. They beat him and laughed when they broke the brace Gadreel had made. I found him later, huddled in a corner of the old cottage. He didn’t want anyone to see that they’d hurt him.”

 

“I left and brought back water, washed the blood from his face, and wiped his tears. They’d told him he was cursed and ugly — that if they ever sired a ‘lame thing like him’ they’d drown it in the river.”

 

“Shit!” Dean mutters. “He told you that?”

 

Castiel nods, “He'd heard things like that before. Said his father was cruel when he drank.”

 

Dean huffs, his brows drawn together.

 

Cas nods, sadly. “I remember telling him not to listen to those boys. I remember telling him he was perfect…and he was — his heart, his soul.” Castiel's eyes are on the stone floor. He worries his lip. “He was perfect, and beautiful... to me.”

 

Castiel’s hand tightens around Dean’s fingers.

 

“I’d always felt… different. ” His eyes meet Dean’s, cautiously, “But that was the day I understood why.”

 

Dean nods, tightening his own grip in reassurance.

 

“We were nearly inseparable after that. Gadreel reported the boys and remade Inais’ brace, and I helped in the stables nearly every day. Sometimes, when I missed my mother so much I couldn’t hold it in, I’d go off alone to the cottage. He’d come and find me there.” Castiel hesitates. His eyes flick away. “He first kissed me there.” He huffs a smile as he remembers.

 

Dean feels Castiel’s fingers tighten again around his, and the jealousy that threatened to twist in his gut is dispelled. He smiles instead, remembering his own first kiss…clumsy and inelegant, but thrilling and pure, the scent of orchard blossoms in the air.

 

“We tried to be careful…too happy in each other to worry about our immortal souls, but still knowing what might happen if we were caught.”

 

“Michael found us, and raged. He dragged me in front of our father… I was whipped and locked in my room. When they finally let me out, Inias and his mother were gone. Banished by my father. He warned me never to mention Inias or his mother again or he’d have them punished. I was so afraid to even look for him after that. I was banished too. Sent to Aunt Amara’s to squire for my uncle Uriel, though he never had much use for me. I tried to hold on to the hope that they were safe somewhere, but my father –he was so angry…I was afraid he’d already hurt Inias.”

 

“That’s why,” Dean murmurs to himself.

 

“Why what?” Castiel asks, missing nothing.

 

“Why you suddenly acted so strangely that day in the village,” he explains. “Seeing Inias after all that time – it must have been like seeing a ghost.”

 

“Exactly!” Cas nods enthusiastically. He lets out a breath, as if relieved to be understood.

 

“Are you…alright? Are you and Inias still…”

 

“In love?” Castiel asks. “No,” he smiles softly. “I thought I was. I’ll always care for him. But I’m just glad he’s safe and happy now.”

 

“Good,” Dean says immediately, blushing. “I mean, it’s good…that he’s well...and that you're... good ,” he rambles. “That everything’s good now.”

 

Castiel smiles brightly at that, it lights up his whole beautiful face. Dean's heart skips a beat. There are these adorable little crinkles at the sides of Castiel's eyes, like little rays.

 

Little sun rays.

 

‘Sunshine.’

 

And yeah it suits — because Dean’s whole chest warms at the sight of Castiel’s smile. Dean ducks his gaze and tries to pull it together. 

 

“What?” Cas asks.

 

Oh…

 

Dean’s head snaps up, cheeks flaming as he realizes he’s spoken that last word aloud and Cas is now waiting for an answer. 

 

“I said… you’re like sunshine,” Dean remarks, half choked with reverence.

 

Castiel cants his head, houndlike, then smiles, looking down as a blush tints his cheeks.

 

They both drift into silence. Dean tries to fathom the burden Cas was forced to carry all those years, not knowing if Inias and his mother were alive — blaming himself for their exile. The pain that must have caused. No one should rob Cas of his smile, not even in jest. 

 

“I didn’t give away your feather,” Dean admits. 

 

Cas looks up again, brows questioning.

 

“The feather,” Dean repeats. He shifts his body, pulling at a cord half hidden beneath his tunic, revealing the blue and green quill at the end of it. “I still have it.” 

 

Castiel laughs.

 

“Why did you hide it?”

 

Dean huffs, “First of all, when you accused me of trading it away to some…what was it?”

 

“Plume hustler?” Castiel says, squinting sheepishly.

 

“Yeah, that!” Dean cackles. “First, you just dismiss me in front of ‘Master Blue-Eyes,’” he teases, lightheartedly, “then you accuse me of paying for a lady’s favors with the feather from our cottage.” 

 

Castiel’s brows rise, that now familiar furrow appearing between them, and Dean freezes, realizing what he’s just said - and damn his tongue for running ahead of his wits again! It’s not theirs. It’s Castiel’s, full of memories and secrets that have nothing to do with Dean. His cheeks rush hot. He’s considering bolting from the room, but then Castiel’s surprised expression softens. His eyes grow tender.

 

“I suppose it is ‘ our’ cottage now, isn’t it?” He turns Dean’s hand over, stroking Dean’s calloused palm with his thumb. “It’s where we found the white rose,” Cas recalls softly, and Dean’s momentary panic is replaced with fond memory.

 

Castiel turns his hand over, showing his own palm. “It’s where you took its thorn from my palm, here,” Castiel guides Dean’s fingers to the spot, “and told me its magic could be mine.” He lifts his gaze. “Remember?”

 

“Yes,” Dean whispers, wanting to claim some of that magic for himself — for both of them. “I remember.”

 

“Our cottage, then,” Cas whispers back, his eyes searching Dean’s, and Dean imagines a life with Castiel — a cottage of their own, somewhere in a deep forest, where they could just be together.

 

Dean could hunt. He could fish. He could teach Castiel if need be. If they could just find a way to avoid the king’s foresters. It’s been so long since he and Sam had a real home. The thought of making one with Castiel makes Dean’s heart swell with love, and ache with it — knowing such things are just dreams.

 

“Our cottage,” Dean nods. He smiles, lifting his hand to smooth Castiel’s hair from his forehead. His eyes flick to Castiel’s lips, full and slightly parted. He can’t help himself – he’s drawn in, choosing to hold onto this dream for just a little longer. Castiel’s lips are on his, soft at first, then more urgent – desiring him – tasting him.

 

A draft makes the Yule candles flicker, and Dean swears they burn brighter than before. 

 

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Notes:

I hope you all are still with me! 😬

Thank you so much for reading!

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