Requiem for the Night

by ignusphoenicis

In the heart of the middle ages, hunters Sam and Dean Winchester must fight to keep themselves alive and out of prison under the tyranny of King Michael Novak's rigid Catholic regime. But when their new Duke arrives, Dean finds himself involved in centuries-old conflicts that could ultimately lead to the rise or fall of an empire.

1. The Unwelcome

"Zachariah is dead."

"What?"

Sam, his huge form just a silhouette in the doorway against the late afternoon light, had returned. He stood in the entrance for a moment longer before shutting the wooden plank and stepping into the cottage. "Zachariah is dead."

Dean Winchester was at the table sharpening his sword against a stone, but he stopped upon hearing Sam's news. Half of his brother's face was cast in shadow, but Dean could see that Sam's expression was mixed, as if he were waiting to see how Dean would react.

Zachariah, the archdick Duke, who ruled over their duchy of Gildwich and made life for the kingdom basically hell, was dead. Sam and Dean lived just outside of the capital of Norham where Zachariah's castle loomed ominously over the village that he abused with his Catholic whip.

"When? How do you know?" Dean asked his brother, setting aside his sword. Word generally traveled slowly, but, as they lived so near the Duke and his castle, he supposed that it must have been not too long ago. The monsters had been extra cheeky these last few days, now that Dean thought on it. They had ganked a wraith just the night before, but the bastard had been so smug, and taunting the entire chase that it hadn't even seemed upset to die. Maybe they were all celebrating.

"Two or three days ago," said Sam, removing his satchel from over his shoulder and setting it on the table beside Dean's sword, the Colt. "The procession is going on in the square right now."

"Did you see him?"

"I caught a glimpse."

"And?"

Sam pressed his lips together and cocked a brow to the side, staring down at the table as if he knew he was feeling the wrong thing. "Vetala."

"I fucking knew it!" Dean slammed his fist down on the table, feelings of both frustration and vindication stewing through him. "Did I not tell the bastard last week that there was something on his ass?" He was such an idiot, Zachariah. Such a pompous, hypocritical idiot who deserved to be dead. So many times he had threatened Sam and Dean with this and that, lynching and hanging and burning at the stake. So often he had called them heathens, banishing them from the village borders until he needed something to be killed. Then he was their best friend, their ruler and their master demanding their services. Countless times Sam and Dean had gotten his castle clean, played exterminator for his nasty pests, which he had a pretty damn good habit of collecting.

"Can't say he didn't deserve it," Sam mumbled in agreement, moving from the table to light the lanterns placed about their shadowy cottage. Night was coming earlier and earlier nowadays, which meant that summer was drawing near an end. Meaning the first bout of cold would tear through the village soon and the body count would rise. Dean always hated winter, because each time he went into town he seemed to be fortunate enough to come across a cart full of dead kids and babies and old people, and even young people whose bodies weren't strong enough to handle the cold.

Not that they weren't used to dead bodies, anyway. Death seemed to follow the Winchesters wherever they went. Or, rather, they followed it. They were hunters, hunters of evil. They tracked and killed monsters, creatures, demons, and just about every other fucking nasty thing that reared its ugly head. Major townships were full of them, especially ones with castles nearby, because there seemed to be an ongoing competition among the bitches to try and murder as many powerful figures as they could; kings, princes, dukes, and all other royalty raking in the top prize of ultimate respect.

So Sam and Dean hunted them. Their father had hunted them, and his father had, and so had his. If anyone had bothered to keep a family record on some parchment somewhere, it was probably charred to crisps, so Dean didn't know how far back Winchester hunters went, but he could only assume forever, since the dragon days. The Winchester name had become infamous among the evil, and, with the rise of Christian governance over the last millennia, among the royalty as well, as their sacrilegious and pagan methods of killing did not bode well with the Good Book.

But they did what they had to, and Dean didn't know how anyone would fucking survive of it weren't for them. "Prick…" Dean mumbled, shaking his head as Sam illuminated the space with light. "Least he went out knowing I was right."

"I'm sure he did," Sam said in that way he did when Dean knew he was humoring him, but Dean chose to ignore it, standing up to go stoke the hearth in the center of the room to life so he could begin roasting the salted pork. "But at least he's not around to give us anymore trouble."

Dean sighed, running his hands through his hair before he skewered the pork on the spit and set it over the fire. It really was good that Zachariah finally bit it, because the fucker definitely deserved it, but it meant another rally among the beasts. Whenever they got someone, someone big at least, it seemed like their efforts and armies multiplied by two hundred and there were freaks to hunt every day. A few years back, a demon had taken Prince Raphael, the first heir to the throne of the entire kingdom, and Sam and Dean got zero sleep for almost three months, practically living in the shrubbery around the castle as they waited for yet another thing to try and sneak in. Zachariah hadn't been a particularly influential Duke, but he was a prince and bloodline of the Novak dynasty, so there was going to be a lot of cleanup to do.

"So who's the head dick in charge now?" Dean wondered out loud, looking to Sam as his brother pulled a loaf of bread from his satchel and began to portion it out with his knife. "Zach has no kids, he's too impotent and inbred."

"From what I heard, another brother fell next in line for the duchy," Sam said as he sliced. "A younger one."

"Aww Hell, the brothers are the worst," grumbled Dean. They were the very worst, so loyal to King Michael and unyielding in his tyrannical Catholicism. As far as the commoners were concerned, the Novaks had been on the throne forever, sliding their blood in duchies and positions of power all over the place, making it so they basically owned the world. It had taken centuries of marriages to ensure that a Novak sat on each throne, but they had done it, and now there were so many of them that the idea of overthrowing the family was little more than a wistful dream. The Catholic Church and the Novak dynasty could basically be considered the same institution, as every country in the world fell under Catholic rule, giving "pagans" like Sam and Dean no choice but to face the consequences of being a heretic.

Michael had been in power for a very long time, and it was under his reign that the Novaks secured the Royn Land to the West, enslaving the savages and forcing conversion among the free people. Now the only free territory were the Free Lands across the sea, where lived people and creatures that probably no one would ever see. Before he had died, John used to tell Dean that he would bring he and Sam to the Free Lands, where they would live as citizens of their own governance. Of course, Dean didn't believe that John would have ever left Norham and his duty as a hunter to go start a farm in the Free Lands, but sometimes it was nice to indulge the fantasy a bit.

"Can't be much worse than Zach," Sam pointed out, slicing up the last of the cheese before dividing it up between their clay plates. "Hopefully."

"Which brother?"

Sam shrugged, his face pensive. "I only talked to Ellen for a few minutes, and she didn't know much either," he said, bringing the plates to the hearth so Dean could place the pork. "There will be a town gathering before the gates when the new prince arrives, no work and yes, you and I are required to attend," he amended the second part, knowing that Dean would be upset.

Dean huffed. "So they kick us out to live a mile away, but expect us to pay their taxes and attend all their stupid meetings?" he said angrily, slopping the pork on the plates hastily, too hastily, as a good chunk fell onto the dirt floor. "Shit," he mumbled, sighing before he reached down to dust it off.

"We have to go, Dean," said Sam, frowning at the dirty piece of meat before taking it and setting it on Dean's plate, and then turning to place them on the table. "We don't know what'll be out there waiting to kill the new guy."

Dean almost laughed. "You really think something'll be so stupid as to try to kill a brand new Duke at his own coronation?"

"It's not like it's never happened before."

Dean sighed again, rubbing his face as he fell into his chair and picked at his dirty pork. A new Duke meant that he and Sam would have to "introduce" themselves all over again and explain what they did and who they were. No doubt they would be in the castle within a few days of his reign, chasing after something that was hungry for Novak blood. As awful as Zachariah had been, he had at least realized that he couldn't exactly have he and Sam executed, even if he threatened them with it almost daily, and Dean wasn't sure if the new one would figure it out until it was too late. He supposed they would find out in due time.

"Well, you know what this means," Dean said after a short silence, in which they shoveled stale bread and salty pork into their mouths.

Sam looked at Dean curiously for a moment until realization set over him, his face setting seriously. "Vetala."

Dean nodded, sticking the last piece of bread and cheese in his mouth and wiping his hands on his tunic. "They hunt in packs, don't they?"

"Yeah, packs of two," Sam confirmed. "Silver knife to the heart."

Two fricking Vetala, beasts that Sam and Dean didn't hunt very often. Dean preferred hunting the same stuff, spirits and ghouls and the dumb werewolf pack that lived in the forest who kept mating and then dying under the Winchester blade. But whenever different monsters came to play, it meant more searching, more guessing, and a lot more risk of dying. It was a dangerous job, and there had been many times where Dean thought that one or both of them was going to die. Somehow they always managed to escape, but Dean knew that one day, something on the job would certainly do him in. He could only hope that whatever that turned out to be, it got him before it could get Sam.

"We'll go at moonrise."

While hunting and killing monsters was a rather…fulfilling occupation, it certainly didn't bring home grain for the chickens or bread for the table. During the day, Dean worked as the town blacksmith's apprentice. Bobby Singer was one of the oldest ones in town, a man of over forty years, with a gruff demeanor and an intelligently pessimistic outlook on life. Most people hadn't the time or capacity to think socially, as they were too busy struggling to sustain themselves, but Bobby was a soul of a different realm, a realm in which change was possible and social barriers were broken down. But, of course, he was a body of this realm, a realm in which change was a myth and social barriers were so rigid that the majority of the people didn't even know they existed, because that was just how life was.

Dean liked Bobby, maybe because he never failed to make Dean feel a little more versed on the world and maybe because he poured Dean some of his brewed ale whenever they had a break, but he was glad for the companionship. Ninety-five percent of the folks in Norham would have never employed a "pagan worshipper" like Dean, but Bobby didn't seem to care, never mentioning God or church or anything like that, and Dean was immensely appreciative. He had become desensitized to hisses and service refusal because it happened so often. Only Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and Ash at the tavern where Sam worked as a cook, and Rufus the grocer didn't throw them out of their establishments, but that was okay. It wasn't as if Sam and Dean could afford to have wives—not that any fathers were looking to wed their daughters off to a Winchester anytime soon. But they got all they needed just fine.

A few days after Zachariah's funeral procession, Dean was removing the axe he had just shaped from the anvil, placing it in the still tub to cool. Dean didn't necessarily love being a blacksmith, but he definitely could have gotten off worse, and he was actually pretty good at what he did. Many Norham folk lived solely off their land, eating and selling their products or trading them for the goods they needed. With that being the case, the majority of them were starving. Sam and Dean were lucky to make decent wages to enough to buy bread and grain to feed their animals and themselves. And it also didn't hurt that Bobby seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that Dean often forged his own weapons to keep.

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the forge almost unbearable in the summer. With the arrival of the new Duke, Bobby had been commissioned to make about four hundred thousand suits of armor and weapons and plates and other things that for some reason couldn't have been recycled from Zachariah. So there was little talk between Dean and Bobby, as both were so stooped in work that no time could be wasted on idle chat.

"God fucking damn it," Dean cursed to himself when he set his hand down on the anvil by mistake, his palm blistering almost immediately after coming into contact with the blazing hot metal. Fuck, he couldn't be slowed down, not now. There were so many stupid things to make, and if they fell behind, Bobby would be the one to take the heat.

"You're off your game today, Winchester," Bobby noted as he glanced up at Dean dunking his hand in the still tub. "You haven't burned yourself in ages."

"Yeah, well you've been alive for ages," he grumbled, wincing as the cool water bubbled up around his throbbing hand.

Bobby rolled his eyes at Dean's horrible insult. "Well, I can't have you going off and ruining your hand. We're a little swamped, kiddo."

It was Bobby's indirect way of asking Dean if everything was okay with him, which made Dean feel awkward. Everything was…well, it was how it was and always would be, except for maybe a little anxiety over the new Duke, but it was nothing Dean couldn't handle. Nothing he should be burning his hand over, anyway. "It won't happen again," Dean said quietly, wrapping his hand with a strip of cloth before picking up his hammer to show Bobby that he wouldn't slow down production.

"So what's your snide on the new Duke?" Bobby asked, seeming to take the interruption as an invitation of sorts to break their silence.

"Can't say I'm not happy Zach's dead," Dean replied truthfully, cocking a brow at Bobby because sometimes it was freaky how much Bobby could read his mind. "Betcha this new guy's gonna be another frog-faced dickhead—"

"I would be careful about the things I said if I were you, Winchester," drawled a deep, hateful voice from the front of the store, a voice that Dean, unfortunately, could recognize anywhere. "Our new Duke will be arriving tomorrow."

A dark-skinned man had entered the forge quietly, standing beside the door. He was dressed in the red and yellow silks of Norham Castle and was much, much too clean to be unnoticeable. It was Uriel, Zach's right-hand douchebag. Uriel was the deacon, the spokesperson, and the Chief of the Norham Guard; which meant that it was his duty to enforce the taxes and laws over the duchy. He also hated Dean. A lot.

"Oh look, if it isn't my favorite accident," Dean grumbled, teeth clenching together at the very sight of Uriel. "You know, it's cute that you came to visit me at work, but I get off at sundown so try and keep it in your pants till then, alright?"

Uriel let the corners of his lips turn up slightly and lazily blinked his cow eyes to show Dean how amusing he found him. "l could have you hanged," he reminded Dean for the millionth time. "It would be nothing to me."

"Yeah? Well why don't you—"

"What business do you have with us, Chief?" Bobby interrupted before Dean could get himself in trouble. "My apprentice and I are busy making all the crap you ordered, so if you don't mind hurrying up."

"I'm actually here for Winchester," Uriel said, almost as if he were amused. "I have some important information to tell him."

Dean narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms defensively to hide the nervous jolt that ran down his body. Any sort of "news" that Uriel felt the need to personally deliver to Dean couldn't be good. "It's alright, you don't need to tell me, I already know that you actually have a vagina."

Uriel looked bored with Dean, not even bothering to threaten having him killed, moving toward them. Dean gripped his hammer and stepped behind his forge, just in case he decided that he wanted to make some Uriel horseshoes. "Taxes, Winchester," the dark man said, his sinister smile returning. "His Majesty Michael has imposed a heretic tax to be paid to the Church. Effective immediately. Each constituent must collect taxes from the heretics of the duchy, and, as it surmises, we have two known ones right here in Norham."

Dean stared at Uriel for a moment, gripping his hammer in his good hand as he processed the 'news.' A heretic tax. They had to pay money to the Church they insulted via tax. It sounded like a complete load of bullshit to Dean, something cooked up by Uriel just to ensure that he and Sam suffer more. But of course, what could they do about it? It wasn't like they could refuse, because Uriel would have them killed. He only kept them alive because Zachariah had finally realized their use, but now that the bastard was gone, there was no telling. Uriel hadn't the authority, but he was mighty influential up in that castle, and Dean didn't know how the new Duke would listen to him.

"Has His Majesty, now?" Dean managed through gritted teeth.

"Oh yes," Uriel nodded, his cruel smile now mocking. The man peeked inside Dean's still tub at the axe he had just made, and then turned his attention back to Dean. "His Majesty feels that the Lord will forgive his failures as a King of controlling the heathens if the heretics pay penance."

"Of course," Dean nodded solemnly, earning a warning sniff from Bobby that the younger man chose to ignore. "We must all pay penance, for his Royal Highness's failures are so vast."

Uriel lunged forward, catching Dean by surprise as he pinned him to the wall of the forge, his mocking smile replaced with a malicious scowl. Dean could push him off if he wanted, but his senses were already overloaded with Uriel and he could not muster the thought as the dark man breathed down his neck threateningly.

"You think you're so clever, Winchester," he seethed, his face inches away from Dean's as he gripped at his rough collar. "You think that just because you and your brother have been getting away with your pagan worship you can do whatever you want."

"Actually—" Dean began, but was met with a sharp elbow to the stomach. He doubled over, gasping in pain and knowing he'd finally crossed the line that he never seemed to see coming until he had vaulted miles over it.

"Boy, learn some respect," hissed Uriel as Dean regained his breath. "In case you haven't realized, Lord Zachariah is dead, and there is nothing keeping you two from the gallows. We will just have to hope that Prince Castiel is wiser in your regard," he said, lifting Dean's head up with his other hand.

As their eyes bored into each other, Dean knew how much he hated him. He hated the stupid, horrible man with every inch and fiber of his body. Had this been any other day, had he not been in Bobby's forge where the man could be held accountable for anything, Dean may have stuck his sword through Uriel's throat.

"Forty pounds a month," Uriel said to Dean, staring him down another several moments before releasing him and straightening out his silks.

Dean held his stance, keeping his head high so that he could pretend that he had some dignity left in him, but it was hard. Forever they had been pushed around by the Guard, insulted and imprisoned and thrown out of the village to scavenge for themselves a mile away. It burned away at his insides to just sit there and take it, but he knew that if he put up a fight they would do something to Sam, because they liked to pick around at Dean and pull his strings to see what made him tick. And that just so happened to be anything involving Sam.

"What?" he gritted, barely even hearing whatever Uriel had said.

"Forty pounds a month," repeated the Chief, allowing his grimace to relax into that same cruel smirk he had sported when he first intruded. "Your tax for being a heretic is forty pounds a month."

Despite all of his efforts to never ever let any of the Guard see that they've ever thrown him, Dean gasped. Forty pounds a month? He had to be joking, he absolutely had to be joking. There was no way anyone in Norham or any other city of the constituency would be able to cough up an extra forty pounds per month, not when everyone was in a deficit. That was more than he and Sam made in two weeks, and all of that went to necessities. They were making do with having a pound or two left over each month for maybe a new scabbard or a cloak. Scrounging together forty pounds was all together impossible.

And by the look of Uriel's smirk, he knew just that. "I will be by at the end of the week to collect from you, Winchester."

Dean's eyes were pits of fury, disbelief, and dread as he stared at Uriel, legs aimlessly walking toward the man, hammer held useless and forgotten in his hand. He suddenly remembered that Bobby was witnessing everything when the older man stepped forward as well, probably as a precaution to try and keep Dean from doing something stupid, but Dean's mind wasn't even in that vein. It was in the vein of a poor man, a poor man who owed money he would never, ever be able to pay.

"I can't pay that," he almost whispered, face breaking from his mask of hardness to a softer, more vulnerable expression that he couldn't even bother trying to hide.

"Then you will be sent to prison as a debtor," Uriel replied snidely, folding his hands together as he turned regally on his heel toward the door of the forge. "And your brother will be enslaved to work in the mines."

Dean watched his back, silently screaming at him to turn back around so that he could….what? Argue the "Michael imposed" heretic tax? Punch him in the jaw? Beg?

No, there was nothing that he could do except stand there, covered in soot and sweat and ten thousand problems as he watched Uriel open the door and release a harsh stream of daylight into the hot room.

"I will be seeing you at the coronation tomorrow, Winchester, Mr. Singer," he said almost ominously with a dark smile playing about his lips, winking once at Dean before he shut the door.

Dean reckoned that they could afford another month of living. They could sell their horses, pigs, chickens, weapons, and all other possessions and also not buy food, and then Uriel would have his forty pounds by the end of the week.

And then he'd find two starving corpses the next time he came around.

Dean knew that that was the whole point, to drive them into either starvation or jail. Of course, they'd pick up and leave Norham before they'd allow any of that to happen, but that was a last resort. Besides, Dean had other means of making money. The other means happening to also be his second-to-last resort.

"Maybe he meant forty shillings," Sam said for the hundredth time the next day as they sat on their horses in the town square, waiting for the new Duke and his procession. The square was jammed with people, some on horses, some on the tops of buildings and shops, and a few dead on the ground. The Guard had a path with about a thirty foot width through town leading up to the iron gates of the castle, where Dean could smell the no doubt delectable feast being cooked all the way from where he sat. He and Sam were positioned as near to the gates as they could be in case some beast showed themselves, swords, crossbows, and silver knives stealthily hidden beneath their cloaks.

"You know he didn't mean forty shillings," Dean said, rolling his eyes as his beautiful black horse, Impala, gave a grunt. Impala could sense that Dean was stressed because she was freakishly in tune with him, and he stroked her mane consolingly. "You see, even Impala thinks you're being dumb."

"I'm not being dumb, Dean," Sam said imploringly. "I'm just trying to find a way to—

"I know what you're trying to do, and I've got it under control," Dean snapped, turning his head toward Sam, aggravated. Didn't Sam get it? There was no way around it other than leaving Norham for good, which they both knew they couldn't. Uriel was going to make life as difficult as possible for them until he finally got them to cave in, so there were no solutions other than giving the bastard what he wanted. And Dean would take care of it, because that's what Dean did.

Sam looked incredulous, almost scoffing. "How? How are you going to come up with forty extra pounds per month?"

"There's a guy who likes the shoes Bobby 'n I make for his horse," Dean said, almost too easily. "He works at the Inn, and he mentioned that they need some help at night and stuff. I was gonna talk to him after this."

Luckily, Sam didn't look suspicious. Unluckily, Sam did look opposing. "What? Dean, you can't work days and nights. When do you sleep? What about hunts?"

Dean sighed, dropping his head to Impala again. Sleep didn't matter, he could do that when he was dead, but their hunting time would be cut drastically if Dean picked up a night job. Sam was capable of doing it on his own, but Dean hated leaving it to that. It was dangerous, first of all, and Dean's main concern over all of this was Sam. But what else could he do?

"I'd only go in every other day," he told Sam. "We'll still have time to gank bitches and stuff, we'll just have to…adjust."

"Dean—" began Sam, but then the crowd instantaneously began to titter and move, noise and activity sweeping across the sea of people. Dean whipped his head to the East, straining his neck to try to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, but he was pretty sure he knew.

Descending the large hill that overlooked the village was a steady stream of people, horses, flags, and wagons. They were too far off to see in detail, but the blue and black flags flapping in the breeze were visible from where Sam and Dean sat, as was the incredible amount of people coming over the hill.

"It's the prince!" some teenaged girl standing by Charger, Sam's dark horse, yelled obviously, and Dean looked at Sam, indicating that their conversation would have to wait. Now it was time to focus.

"Whoa, baby," Dean murmured to Impala, pulling on her reigns as she started clipping her hooves impatiently against the sandy ground. Impala hated being in large crowds, it made her anxious. She always just wanted to run, no matter where they were, and Dean patted her sympathetically. He felt much the same. "Just a little longer, keep your nose out for anything suspicious, okay?" His voice was low and quiet, just enough for Impala to hear.

He scanned the crowd, thankful that most people were on foot. It made it easier to keep his eyes peeled and alert for anything out of the ordinary. Men, women, children, dressed in their wool tunics and dresses, sweating and stinking in the summer heat were all fighting for better views of the procession. A few random pipers were playing, babies were crying, and girls were laughing, and Dean couldn't pick out anything unusual among the Norhamers. But he didn't expect to, either. If there was any sort of trouble afoot, it certainly wouldn't make itself known so blatantly.

By this time the trumpeters were audible over the ruckus, regally sounding across the village as the Prince's first bannermen appeared in the square. The flags they bore were massive, sky blue with two black perpendicular lines intersecting across the width. Astride great horses were men and knights in silks and armor of the same design as the flag, staring forward as if they didn't notice the raucous throng of villagers clamoring for attention.

It was expected that the arrival of the king would be ritzy, but Dean was slightly surprised at just how grand and large the procession was. Gildwich wasn't exactly known for its wealth, and the city of Norham itself was pretty grungy. And yet here they were, royal and majestic as ever as they passed through the square and through the gates of the great stone castle that imprisoned everyone in its shadow.

"Anything look weird to you, aside from their egos?" Dean murmured to Sam, unable to peel his eyes from the continuous movement of people.

"No, but we haven't even seen the Prince yet."

But he spoke to soon, as a collective gasp radiated from the rear side of the square as people began dropping to their knees, bowing their heads only halfway to get a glimpse of their new ruler. Sam and Dean were still too far up to see him, but Dean stuck his hand inside his cloak to grip at the hilt of his sword, because if anything were to happen, it was going to happen soon.

Little by little, the wave of kneeling villagers made their way toward Sam and Dean, the chatter becoming more slurred but just as loud as the Prince made his way through the square. For many of the folk, this was would be the first and last time they ever glimpsed anything royal in person and Dean sighed almost enviously. How easy it must be to not have to break into a heavily armed castle on a weekly basis. Sam and Dean had gotten to know Zachariah pretty well after darting through his stuff so often, and he was certainly not someone who Dean wanted to know.

The Colt pressed tightly into his palm as Dean gripped it harder when the first horizontal line of knights came into view. Blue and black breastplates outfitted among silver, crafty armor shone blindingly in the light, and Dean realized glumly that even after a lifetime of blacksmith worth, he would never, ever be able to craft something so perfect. They were almost frightening to look at, all ominous and deadpan as they sat on their balls and stared straight forward as if they couldn't be bothered by the dirty, gawking villagers. Dean hated knights, partly because they were all dicks and partly because he knew he could be a knight any fucking day of the week.

But behind the line of knights was a man in ornate silver armor, the blue and black symbol of his breast plate larger and more handily crafted than those of the rest of the party. His white horse was massive and magnificent with its silvery mane and golden shoes, shoes which were probably worth two decades of a heresy tax.

It was evident that under his armor that the man was slender, long limbs and fingers filling out the chainmail as he sat ramrod straight on his horse. His face, uncovered by a helmet, was positioned straight forward and wearing the most serious expression Dean had ever seen on a human being. Piercing blue eyes that matched the blue on his chest bore into the space in front of him, positioned above a sloping nose and cutting cheek bones. His hair was dark brown and surprisingly messy for someone who seemed so disciplined, as if his mind had been so focused on everything else that combing his hair fell by the wayside.

"Oh, so handsome," whispered the same girl beside Sam as she bent to her knees, and Dean snapped back to reality, rolling his eyes at her daft observation and resuming his scanning of the crowd.

"Not as frog-faced as ol' Zach," Dean murmured to Sam, who was watching the Prince as he passed through the gates with tight lips. Dean took his silence for agreement and kept his hand on The Colt while the rest of the procession, more knights and squires and carts and horses, entered through the gates of the castle, none even pleasing themselves with a glance at their constituents. What dicks, Dean thought with aggravation.

But there didn't seem to be anything waiting to waste the Prince right off, which was sort of a bonus. The night before and early this morning, Sam and Dean had laid salt lines around the castle, running a quick sweep of the interiors and passageways that seemed to dig six hundred feet below ground for any signs of creatures on the prowl, but there was nothing to be found. It was almost worrisome, because something certainly had plans of bathing in the royal's blood, and the fact that the Winchesters had seen absolutely nothing since the two vetala was strange. Either he and Sam were gaining a venerative fear (unlikely), or there was something larger afoot (extremely likely).

The last of long line crossed through the gates and the guard lowered the portcullis with a demeaning slam, and the people all stood, not bothering to wipe the dust from their already filthy rags. A new pinion tune of trumpets sounded out across the square from the castle balcony, and Dean inclined his head, looking up to see Uriel strut out from the interior, a smile that hinted of happiness not at all on his face.

"People of Norham, capital city of the Gildwich territory, constituent of the Holy Novak Empire, please come to your knees to recognize your new Duke," he called across the square, deep voice a booming echo as the crowd grew eerily silent. "Brother of the Holy King, keeper of the Western realm, seventh heir to the throne of the Empire and cardinal of the Catholic church. Prince Castiel."

Once again, everyone dropped to one knee and bowed their heads as the man in silver armor appeared on the balcony, dipping his head when Uriel placed Zachariah's old crown atop his messy hair, and then straightened up like a pike to stare above everyone, taking extra care to allow absolutely no emotion through the stoic hardness of his face.

Dean stared up at the man, waiting for him to wave or speak or do anything other than cast his glare above the crowd. Even the most harsh and hateful of rulers would acknowledge his constituents. But not Prince Castiel.

"Wow," muttered Sam beside him, his face tilted upward to study the man. "He doesn't look too happy."

Happy was the farthest thing from the aura that this man was radiating. "Wonder what he's got shoved up his ass."