"Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea."
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Elliot
For generation after generation, the Miltons made their home on Iron Hill. Some ancestor some hundred years ago had done a favor for the king, and in reward was granted wealth and the lands that came with the lordship of the Hill. Time (and a string of reckless heirs) had stripped the family of their previous wealth, but their title still remained. They were a beautiful bunch; cold like good earth crusted over by winter ice. But this generation was different from those previous; more tender, more daring, more reckless. In a generation of black sheep, Castiel was the most unconventional of all.
He stood by the library window, cup of tea in hand, gazing down at the garden below. Spring was in full swing, and the groundsmen down below were hard at work maintaining the meticulous standard that Michael insisted on maintaining. One of the previous Miltons, Joshua, was a great lover of growing things, and he built and designed a magnificent garden in honor of that love. The Garden of Iron Hill was famed for its beauty, and his older brother would not have that beauty falter for anything.
"I don't know what it is you find so fascinating about them," drawled Balthazar, comfortably lounging in an armchair, "They're a sweaty, smelly lot."
Lucifer, who had just poured himself some tea, snickered,
"Come now, Balthazar. We all must have our hobbies. Cassie's just swings more along the lines of," he sidled up beside Castiel to get a better look at what it was his brother was watching so intently, "gazing at men hard at work trimming plants and digging."
Castiel turned to glare at the both of them and then returned his gaze to the men below.
"Don't let Michael catch you at it, little one."
"It's not men," he murmured, "It's just one."
Behind his back, Balthazar almost spat out his sip of tea and exchanged incredulous glances with Lucifer.
"I don't expect this to stay quiet for long." Castiel sighed mournfully.
"Nonsense," Lucifer said, patting his shoulder reassuringly, "Michael still doesn't know Gabriel was the one who painted the white roses red. You'll get to keep your secret for a little while at least."
One of the groundsmen lifted his cap from his light brown hair, rubbing the sweat off of a freckled forehead. Lucifer watched as his little brother lifted a tentative hand to touch the cool glass; and he smiled, amused at the expression on Castiel's face when the green eyes of Dean Winchester lifted their gaze and caught sight of the two of them standing at the window. Michael would never approve, but so long as the infatuation was on his brother's part alone, Lucifer supposed it was harmless. He analyzed the distant features of the Winchester boy and came to the conclusion that, objectively, he was indeed beautiful. Poor Cassie.
A couple weeks later, Castiel and Gabriel rode their horses along the country roads. After a brief race (instigated by Gabriel and won by Castiel) they slowed their steeds down to a relaxed walk and enjoyed the shade of the trees. Castiel patted the side of his horse's neck with a gloved hand, grinning as Gabriel regaled him with tale after tale of more and more outrageous exploits and sights that could be found in the city.
"I swear, Cassie, cakes like you've never seen in your life. And the chocolate is to die for. I meant to bring back a box for all of you, but then I ended up eating them all on the train ride back and got rid of the evidence as quickly as I could. What ho! Winchesters!"
Castiel stiffened, and they brought their horses to halt. Gabriel sat up higher and waved his arms enthusiastically at the two figures with tools over their shoulders walking down the dirt road. The taller of the two answered Gabriel's waving with a raised arm. His brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and he walked like an Olympian among mortals. His companion was slightly shorter, wearing a brown cap that Castiel knew hid light brown hair that shone gold in the sun. His face was skin was sun kissed, and Castiel vaguely wondered how long it would take to count all the freckles. His summer green eyes met Castiel's steadily, and it took all of Castiel's self control to not gasp from the depths of them. His mouth was a thing of beauty, his plush lips equal to any that could be found carved on the classical Greek sculptures. Said mouth parted to allow a pink tongue to lick said lips, and snapped Castiel out of his reverie with a light blush warming his cheeks.
"Yes, I keep telling Dean," Sam elbowed his older brother in the arm playfully, "That the city is actually a great place. I even tried to tempt him by mentioning the pies, but he won't have it. Thank you for sponsoring me, Gabe."
Gabriel laughed bright as brass,
"I can't stand to see potential wasted; especially when it's a mind like yours. I'm glad to hear your studies are going well and my investment is paying off."
"Are you going to join us for cards at The Green Bough tonight, Gabriel?" Dean asked, sanpping his eyes away from Castiel's.
"Perhaps. That's all dependent on how soon I can sneak away. Michael's having one of his dinners."
Dean smiled wryly.
"Yes. Our lord is quite fond of his formalities."
Gabriel rolled his eyes comically and let out a dramatic sigh.
"Lucifer keeps him human, thank God. I rue the day those two have a falling out. We'll let you two be on your way. Save a pint for me!"
Once the Winchester's were a far enough distance away, Gabriel brought his horse up to walk beside Castiel's and leaned forward in the saddle to catch his little brother's eyes.
"What's the matter with you? You were quiet as a church mouse back there. Quieter, even."
Castiel looked away, chewing on his lip. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gabriel's confusion give way to a wicked grin.
"Someone's in love with a Winchester boy."
"It's nothing." Castiel snapped.
"Indeed."
"Why did you allow Sam Winchester to be so familiar with you?"
Gabriel rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"I'm paying for his schooling, Cassie. Besides, we used to play with them as children, remember? You, me, Balthazar, and Anna. You used to trail after Dean like a little tail."
"I did not!"
"Yes you did." Gabriel cackled gleefully. They rode up the path to the mansion, passing a family of rabbits as they went.
Once the horses were cooled down and stabled, they made their way to the side door. Gabriel threw his arm over Castiel's shoulder.
"Your secret's safe with me. So long as you don't tell Michael I was the one who fiddled with his personal library."
"You rearranged the books in his study by author's first name, didn't you?"
Gabriel snickered and ruffled Castiel's already windswept hair.
Gabriel never did manage to sneak away from dinner.
In his bed that night, Castiel tossed and turned in his sheets. Finally, he tossed the covers aside and walked up to his long, bedroom window. The moon shone out like a gentle white beacon, and the stars glittered like diamonds on black velvet. From his window, he could see the town below, glowing with cheerful yellow lamplight. Against his will, he could feel a pit of longing open up inside his chest. He could have sobbed from the pain of it. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and sighed.
Two long weeks passed before Castiel snapped and found himself in the pub called The Green Bough. Some of the men inside gave him curious looks, but for the most part, he didn't even warrant a second glance. His other brothers spent time relaxing in the pub often enough that the presence of a Milton was no longer a novelty, and he wasn't nearly as colorful a character as Gabriel or Balthazar.
"A pint, Master Milton?" offered the barkeeper.
"Y-yes," Castiel stuttered, "yes, please."
Castiel took the mug gratefully, but then his face fell as he realized he didn't actually bring any money with him.
"Don't worry," the barkeeper chuckled, "I'll put it on your brothers' tab."
He smiled gratefully in return, and took a long swig. He swept his eyes through the pub, observing the patrons with some interest. Nearby, Ash Miles, the book merchant's son, was arguing the finer points of the Aeneid in its original Latin text with Jo Harvelle, the daughter of The Green Bough's proprietors, and Charlie Bradbury, the local schoolmistress. Jo's mother, Ellen, brought food out to the group of men seated in the corner. Castiel craned his head around and saw that the men were Bill Harvelle (who greeted his wife with a large grin); Bobby Singer, the smith; Frank Deveraux, the butcher; and John Winchester, head groundsman at Iron Hill.
"It's going to happen, I tell you," rumbled John, "Trade's not been good between us and them. And they're just itching to take back the lands we won how many hundred years ago."
"John, just because you're itching for a good war doesn't mean the rest of the world is."
"Don't you patronize me, Bill Harvelle! You haven't heard half the things Sammy told me that's been going on in the city."
Castiel turned back to his drink, noting ruefully that it was almost gone. He raised the mug to his lips to finish it off.
"Benny, another round."
Castiel choked. He knew that voice. Very slowly, he turned and got an eye full of Dean Winchester, right next to him, leaning against the bar. He greeted Castiel with a slow smile.
"Good evening, my lord. Don't see you 'round here very often."
"Good evening, Mr. Winchester."
Dean snorts and catches the mug of beer the barkeeper, Benny, sends sliding down his way.
"Please. Mr. Winchester is my father over there. It'd make me happier if you'd just call me Dean."
"Alright, Dean. Then you must call me Castiel."
Dean grinned, and Castiel noted the way his eyes crinkled merrily.
"Fair enough. Sammy's back to school again, so now I'm left to fend for myself against those card sharks over there. Do you play poker, Castiel?"
Castiel confessed that he did not and also did not know the rules. Dean clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder and declared that Castiel would be his luck for the night, and dragged the other man to the table he had previously been seated at, beer in tow. He introduced Castiel to his companions, though Castiel already knew them all; Garth Fitzgerald, one of the younger doctors in town; Victor Henrikson, one of the town policemen; Pamela Barnes; the most unconventional midwife Castiel ever had the misfortune/pleasure of being in conversation with; and Lisa Braeden, the owner of Gabriel's favorite bakery. Dean kept his arm around Castiel the entire time, whispering the finer points of the game into his ear and laughing uproariously when Castiel finally managed to win a hand on his own. For his part, Castiel leaned into Dean's warmth and reveled on the rare moments where Dean's lips brushed against his ear.
Finally, they managed to stumble and stagger their way outside, telling the others that they needed some fresh air. Dean leaned against the thick post of the entry way, drinking in the sight of Castiel with hooded, glittering eyes.
"Aren't they missing you up on the Hill?"
"Not likely," Castiel shivered in the night air, "I came here to look for you."
"I can't give you what you want." Dean said shortly.
Castiel felt the pit of his stomach drop, and all the joy and happiness of The Green Bough seemed to fall away with the suddenness of having a bucket of water dumped over the head.
"Oh." He dug around in his pocket, nervously feeling around for his gloves. He rubbed his fingers comfortingly against the soft leather of them. A gentle finger tilted his chin upwards, and he found himself drowning in pools of dark green.
"I can't give you anything more than one night."
"That's a lifetime's worth for me." whispered Castiel. Dean nodded and took a hold of Castiel's hand, leading him out into the night.
The Winchester house was a modest residence. John Winchester worked very hard to maintain the decorative pattern of the stones in the walkway, and Mary always made sure there was vase of flowers on the end table in the front entryway. Castiel did not actually get to see these things because Dean Winchester currently had him pressed against the side door that led to the boys' part of the house. His mouth was hot against Castiel's, and he tasted of beer and apple pie. He broke away, leaving Castiel gasping, and rested his forehead against Castiel's. As if in a haze, Castiel heard Dean chuckle darkly.
"You always look so hungry when I see you."
Wordlessly, Castiel clutched at Dean, drawing him closer and refusing to lose his warmth. Dean laid a slow kiss under Castiel's jaw, nipping and sucking at the skin, before unlocking the door and dragging Castiel inside. He held a hand to his lips, and couldn't help the soft giggling that burst from inside his chest. It didn't help that Castiel started giggling as well, and Dean shushed him in the gaps between their quiet laughter. They tripped and stumbled against the walls, laughing into each other's kisses and pawing and loosening their clothes and stripping away their jackets.
After what seemed like miles, they finally made their way into Dean's room.
"Let's get out of these clothes." Castiel whispered.
"Cas, you naughty thing." Dean nipped at Castiel's ear and pushed him down onto the bed. As he unbuttoned Castiel's shirt, he trailed his lips down, nipping and kissing and tasting Castiel's skin in the moonlight.
"So beautiful." Deep in Dean's soul, he wished he were poet or a painter so he could immortalize the sight of Castiel, wanton on his bed. Instead, he made do with searing into his memory the rise and fall of Castiel's pale chest, the pink of his lips, the dark pools of his lust-filled eyes. Castiel raised his hand to tug and pull at Dean's shirt, fumbling at the buttons.
"You have too many clothes on." He growled. Dean snickered, and stripped them both down until they were bare as the day they were born. He tempered Castiel's exploring touch with his own gentle fingers trailing over pale, muscular skin like ghosts over a dew covered field. Dean buried his face in the crook of Castiel's neck, savoring each and every sound that left Castiel's lips as Dean buried his fingers in Castiel's ass, stretching and stroking the smooth inner walls. He chuckled darkly when he found a place inside Castiel that made him gasp and clench. With a frustrated groan, Castiel turned, straddling Dean's hips and towering over him like a god. He reached behind him for Dean's already stiff cock, and sank down slowly. Would there ever be anything more beautiful than the self-satisfied smile that graced Cas's face when he was fully seated and clenching around Dean. Dean slid his hands up Cas's thighs, stopping to grip and rub circles with his thumbs into Castiel's waist as the other man threw back his head and rode Dean.
I want you. Oh, how I want you, you beautiful thing I can never have. So let's just stay here, while the night still belongs to us and we can forget everything that the world want us to be. Let's stay here, and coil ourselves together and memorize the winding path of muscle and flesh that forms between you and me. And in the morning, I'll hold you close and show you how much I don't want to say good bye. But now is for you and me alone.
With one final clench, Castiel came, spurting on Dean's stomach, panting and breathless, ready to collapse. He dropped down to kiss Dean with swollen lips, grinning at the tell-tale feeling of warm wetness as Dean's cock slid out of him. Dean raised a hand to stroke Castiel's cheek, rubbing at his hairline and looking up at him tenderly.
"You're mine, aren't you?"
He rolled them, using the weight of his body to pin Castiel to the bed, kissing him all over and sucking new bruises into Castiel's flesh. Castiel held onto Dean's head, digging his fingers through sandy brown hair, tired and laughing softly as Dean tickled his skin.
"You're insatiable," Castiel moaned, stretching and contorting himself to rise to Dean's touch.
"Say it." Dean whispered. Resting his head over Castiel's heart, listening to it beat in time to his own. Castiel closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Dean, content to stay, surrounded in the scent and feel of Dean.
"Yours."
"Castiel," Anna poked her head into the library, "Michael says he needs you in the study."
"Is it serious?" Castiel asked, breaking out of a particularly nice daydream involving Dean's warm arms wrapped around him.
She nodded grimly. Castiel felt the blood drain slowly from his face. Michael couldn't have found out. He couldn't have.
Castiel knocked tentatively at the dark, heavy doors of Michael's study. When it belonged to his father, he used to play by the doors, memorizing the patterns in the wood. But that was back when the doors of in the mansion were seldom closed, and he could poke a head into the doorway and see his father's scruffy face. Sometimes, he'd walk by the study and he could swear he could hear his father's soft voice muttering away.
"Come in." Rang out the stern voice of Michael.
Castiel took a deep breath and steeled himself for doom and judgment day.
Michael was standing at the window behind his desk, his back to Castiel. Castiel's blue eyes bored holes in the back of Michael's dark, well-groomed head of hair.
"I've heard some terrible news. It hasn't reached the village yet, thank God, but it won't be long until everyone knows," finally, he turned around and on his face was the most sorrowful expression Castiel had seen in his entire life. Michael heaved a tired sigh and walked the two steps back to his desk.
"A…a telegram from Gabriel came in today."
He lifted it from his desk and passed it to Castiel. With a tentative hand, Castiel accepted the paper. The message upon it was comprised of two earth-shattering words.
WAR DECLARED.
The telegram shook in Castiel's hand as Michael spoke once more, his voice quiet and defeated.
"As per the laws of our land, the first draft is going to consist of one able-bodied man from every family," Michael slumped into his chair and buried his head in his hands, "I have to run the house and the fields and the garden; I can't go. Lucifer's needed in the town council; he can't go. God forbid we send Gabriel—"
"You can't send Balthazar."
Michael's head whipped up so quickly that Castiel was briefly worried he had hurt his neck.
"Anna would never forgive you. I would never forgive you."
Tears welled in Michael's green eyes,
"I can't send you to die, Cassie."
"Then I won't die."
Michael rose up from his chair, strode around the desk, and wrapped Castiel in a tight, chest-crushing hug. Castiel turned his head to gaze out the window and tucked his head in the crook of Michael's neck, closing his eyes to the feel of Michael rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back, more for Michael's comfort than Castiel's.
"When did you get so tall?"
Castiel smiled.
"While you were squirreled away in this study, of course."
Michael gave his back a final pat before breaking the embrace.
"I have something for you," he walked away to the corner behind the study doors, "I found it among father's things, believe it or not."
It was an officer's saber; beautifully crafted, with gold filigree on the ivory handle. The blade still shone bright silver, despite its lack of use. Michael passed it to his youngest brother, and Castiel tested the weight of it.
"It's beautiful. I'll make sure not to lose it."
"It's only a sword, Castiel. You just come home safely."
When the day finally came, Balthazar and Anna took him to the train station. Anna took hold of his hand comfortingly the entire car ride, but Balthazar said nothing. By the time they reached the station, there was already a gathering of men and their families. Familiar faces, both old and young. Castiel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could do this. Just as Castiel was about to board, Balthazar pulled him back and wrapped him in a tearful hug.
"I love you, Cassie."
And just like that, Castiel felt his strong resolve crumble. He gripped the back of his brother's jacket tightly and let out a sob. He felt another set of arms wrap around him and saw red hair in his peripheral vision as Anna took him and Balthazar into her arms. It finally hit him that this could be the last time he'd ever see his brother and sister, and he could feel his knees go weak from the weight of the revelation.
Once he found his strength again, he kissed both of their cheeks and walked up the steps of the train car. As the train pulled out of the station, he opened the window next to his seat and waved out the window. He kept the window open until he could no longer see Anna's hair and Balthazar waving his black cap. He sat back in his seat with a sigh, only to almost jump in his seat at the sound of a tapping on his booth's door.
"Yes?"
"May I join you?"
"Dean!" Castiel felt his heart simultaneously rise and fall at the sight of Dean in the doorway. It was a very confusing emotion. "Yes, of course. Please sit down."
Dean nodded, hefting his duffle and stowing it away in the compartment above his head. He sat down across from Castiel, slouching down just enough to let their knees touch.
"Ready to die for God and country?"
"No," Castiel sighed, "But I'm here on this train. And so are you."
"I'm not much of a loss. No one will miss me."
Castiel frowned.
"You undervalue yourself, Dean. Your family loves you. I'd miss you."
Dean smiled ruefully, and looked away.
"And what about you, Cas?"
"My father had enough children. I'm the most expendable. I wasn't doing anything particularly meaningful with my life, anyway."
Dean leaned forward, squeezing Castiel's knee gently and leaving his hand there. The sat in silence, watching the lazy countryside of their home slip further and further away.
Dean started awake at the sound of air rushing and the inevitable boom of a mortar shell exploding. The enemy was bombing the privy. Again. He groaned, rubbing his eyes and stretching his aching muscles. Sleeping in a sitting position propped against the trenches wasn't the most comfortable position in the world, but it was better than lying in the muck and filth on the ground. Judging from the amount of light in the sky, it was early morning.
"Don't they ever sleep?"
"I suspect they just wake up very early." Said a rough, familiar voice. There stood Cas, looking as tired as Dean felt, in his dirty officer's uniform, saber by his side, two mugs of some steaming beverage in his hand. He passed one of them to Dean, and took a sip from his own mug.
"Officers' tea." Murmured Cas.
Dean took a sip of it, glad for the feeling of warmth that seeped from the mug and the liquid warmth as it went down.
"Why Cas, you spoil me."
"Not really. You did save me yesterday."
The taste of the tea turned unnaturally bitter in Dean's mouth at the memory of it. Their company had been ordered to go over the trenches, and go over they did. The battle swiftly turned into a chaos of bullets and bayonets piercing flesh. Some of the men even caught on fire.
"I talked to Garth on my way here. Ash didn't make it. The burns on his body were too severe."
Dean pressed his mug against his forehead. He was tired of bombs, and poison gas, and bullet wounds, and bayonets, and rats, and sleepless nights, and dead friends.
"How are we going to survive this?" He looked up into Cas's tired blue eyes from where he sat. Cas only shrugged in return.
"One day at a time, Dean. It's the best we can do."
They rose over the trench, charging out into No Man's Land on yet another set of orders to take the enemy trenches. The enemy fired on them, and in return they lobbed grenades (even some made from jam tins sent from home) at the enemy machine guns. It was in the deafening boom of mortar shells on both sides that Dean saw Castiel go down, and in that moment, his world came to a shuddering halt. Dean forgot the danger around him, scrambling and sprinting the short distance to come to a sliding halt by Cas's side.
"No. Cas, no. Hang on, Cas. Don't leave me. Don't leave me."
Castiel gasped, sucking air into his lungs desperately. His hands scrabbled, fingers clenching, to reach the wound on his left leg where a piece of shrapnel had lodged itself, but he was in too much pain to move. Dean whipped out the last clean cloth in his possession and pressed it to Castiel's leg wound, heedless of the blood that was soaking through.
"Medic!" Dean roared. He returned his attention to Cas, keeping pressure on the other man's leg wound. In the blink of an eye, Garth appeared across from Dean, red cross on his helmet and on the patch over his breast.
"Keep holding the pressure, Dean. Don't worry, Captain Milton, you're going to be fine."
Garth made a quick tourniquet to slow the bleeding, and gave Castiel a shot of morphine.
"Stretchers will be here soon. Stay with him, Dean." Dean nodded, and Garth made his way, quick as jackrabbit, to the other wounded in need of immediate attention. Dean turned his attention back to Castiel. He raised a bloodied hand to stroke Castiel's cheek. He smiled down at Castiel, noting the way the other man desperately tried to maintain focus on his face. Dean leaned down, putting his mouth close to Castiel's ear.
"Don't go. Don't go. I need you."
When he drew his face back, Cas smiled up at him. Before Dean was able to parse out the feeling that was stirring in his chest, the tell tale sound of a whistle in the air had him stiffening and tense. Without a thought, he covered Cas's body with his own as a mortar shell came crashing down dangerously close to them. When he lifted his head to check for danger around him, ears ringing, Dean didn't notice the grenade that had also been lobbed nearby. All he knew was that a moment later, the left side of his face was burning with agonizing pain, and his world was going dark. But all he could think about as he lost consciousness was his guilt over his utter failure to keep Cas safe.
Dean glared irritably up at the hospital ceiling from his good eye. The left side of his face was bandaged to hell, but the doctors and nurses had all stopped by to reassure and congratulate him on the condition of his face. From what he gathered, it could have been much, much worse. The tissue would heal up well enough for him to be recognizable, but he would be forever scarred. It was to be expected. They were waiting for it to be time to take the bandages off before they could check out his eye. Dean snorted when the doctor said that. If the doctor suspected that Dean would be blind out of his left eye (which thankfully toughed it out and stayed in his skull), Dean would much rather be told the suspicion and be given an eye patch that he could wear for the rest of his life. That wouldn't be too bad. The other "good" thing that came out of it was the orders sending him home.
Dean resisted the urge to scratch ever so gently at the healing skin under the bandages. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way down the hall to the ward across the way. He pulled a chair up to one of the hospital beds and laid his head down beside the resting inhabitant's hand. Said patient lifted his hand and ran it through Dean's hair. Dean shifted slightly to look up at Castiel through his good eye.
Castiel also had orders to go home. The other man hadn't said a word since the stretchers took him off of the battlefield and transported him to the hospital. Shell shock on top of an injured leg. Thankfully, his leg hadn't gotten infected to a point where they had to amputate it. Instead, a nurse told Dean, Castiel would likely go through the rest of his life with a severe limp. Dean already drew up plans in his mind for the walking cane he would make Cas when they returned home. In his mind, he already had planned out a thousand things they could do together, a thousand ways they could forget they were ever in those godawful trenches.
"We're going to go home soon," murmured Dean, raising a hand to rest on Castiel's stomach, "Back to Iron Hill, and Joshua's Garden, and The Green Bough and family."
He felt Cas's hand drop on top of his own, and a thumb rub the soft skin that bridged the gap between Dean's thumb and forefinger, gentle as a kiss.
"I love you." Dean whispered.
Soon. Soon they would be home.
Once they arrived at the train station, Castiel took Dean's face between his hands and rested his forehead against the other man's. It was the closest thing Dean would ever get as a goodbye from him. Once they exited onto the platform, Castiel's family promptly attempted to whisk him away. Before they could, Castiel tugged at Balthazar's sleeve and insistently pointed at Dean. Balthazar stared, puzzled and trying to understand what it was that Castiel was trying to say. Dean almost laughed because it took Castiel rolling his eyes and striding over to link arms with Dean for Anna to get the message and offer Dean a ride to his home. Balthazar grumbled as he loaded their bags into the car, and if Castiel took Dean's hand in his own, neither Anna nor Balthazar commented on it.
For the first time in all the years that Dean had lived in it, the Winchester house showed its age. It was always an old house, with drafts and the occasional need for re-roofing, but it never looked old. The walls outside were in need of a new coat of paint, the stone walkway had a few tenacious weeds springing up, and the trees and bushes needed pruning. Dean walked up the pathway, turning back briefly to wave the car and its occupants goodbye. Before he even made it up the steps, the front door swung open, and there stood his mother and his father. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at them.
"I'm home." He said in a small voice.
Mary let out a relieved sob, and rushed down the steps to gather him in her arms. Dean welcomed her embrace, finally feeling like he was home again. She kissed him all over his face, being especially gentle with the left side. John stayed where he was, frozen, his face a study in pain as he took in the damage the war had done to his eldest son.
The left side of Dean's face was scarred over, and the tissue was thankfully no longer painful. He knew it wasn't pretty to look at. In texture, it looked a lot like the torn and damaged soil of No Man's Land. His eyebrow wasn't going to come back. His left eye wasn't completely blind, but it was effectively useless, so Dean just covered it with the eye patch he had been itching for.
When Dean and Mary finally made their way up the steps, John wrapped Dean in a tight hug. Dean wrapped his arms around his father, taking in the man's scent and feeling safe for the first time in a long time. He felt a wetness at the side of his neck, and it took him a moment before he realized his father was crying. John, who—as far as Dean knew—never cried, openly sobbed at his son's return. He raised a hand to the back of Dean's head and pressed him closer. Dean made a confused noise, but did not draw away. When John finally calmed, he said, in his deep rumbling voice,
"Sons shouldn't have to fight their fathers' wars."
Dean stood underneath his mother's favorite apple tree, tilting his head, and trying to decide the best approach to take for pruning and cutting back the branches when winter came. He walked around the tree one way, and then around the other, then stopped back where he had started.
"Dean Winchester?"
Dean started, and whipped around to see Anna Milton standing less than three feet behind him.
"That's me." he answered, once his nerves had sufficiently calmed down.
"I'm here for my brother, Castiel."
"Cas? Is something wrong? Is he all right?" He put a hand on the tree's trunk to steady himself.
"He's well, Dean. His body is, anyway," she rubbed a gloved hand against her arm, obviously a little uncomfortable with the conversation, "But he needs you."
Dean raised his remaining eye brow skeptically.
"He told you that?"
Anna rolled her eyes and tilted her head, a movement that reminded Dean enough of Cas to make him smile.
"He doesn't talk, as you know. But everyone knows. Even Michael managed to put two and two together, and Michael doesn't recognize things of the heart unless they bash him over the head ten or twenty times."
Dean looked away, rubbing the back of his suddenly warm neck. He looked up at the apple tree and reached, plucking down two apples. He passed one to the surprised Milton. He took a bite of his own apple, savoring the crunch and the sweet juice.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Come with me and go to him. I'm pretty sure the tree can wait."
Dean patted the tree trunk contemplatively, then nodded, stripping off his work gloves and returning the tools to his father's shed.
Dean had never actually been inside the mansion on Iron Hill. He and Sam would rest on the stone benches in Joshua's Garden during their breaks, but he had never actually been inside the mansion itself. It wasn't half as grand as his imagination had made it out to be, but it was welcoming and lived in. Anna led the way, her small steps moving swiftly and keeping Dean from fully absorbing the rooms around him. After much weaving through the rooms and doors, they finally came to a stop to a familiar set of glass doors. Although he had only ever seen the other side of them, he knew they were the doors that led out to Joshua's Garden. He almost turned to glare at Anna for the ridiculously roundabout way they had gone, but stopped at the sight of a familiar head of a dark hair highlighted by the sun. Without a word to Anna, Dean opened the door and stepped outside.
Castiel was seated on a comfortable lawn chair, dressed in white, and obviously enjoying the warm summer air. Beside him was a small table with a tea tray and cakes. Dean ignored the food and knelt by the side of Castiel's chair, like a knight before his lord. Castiel smiled, taking Dean's face between his hands. Dean closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth of Castiel's touch. He opened his eyes at the strange tugging feeling he felt on his head. Castiel smiled sheepishly, and Dean shook his head, smiling. He untied his eye patch and let it drop into the grass. Castiel took in the milky appearance of Dean's left eye, and Dean watched as his blue eyes flicked from Dean's good eye to his not-so-good eye, silently comparing the two. Like the sun breaking over a mountainside, Castiel's face broke into a wide, toothy grin, and Dean smiled in return. He could see it in the way Castiel looked tenderly down at him that Cas didn't care about the scars on his face. Castiel had long ago stopped seeing Dean with his eyes; he looked at Dean with the sight of his heart, which would forever find Dean beautiful.
"I love you too." Castiel murmured softly. Dean almost didn't catch it, almost thought he had imagined hearing the words. At Castiel's smirk and silent giggles, Dean knew that his hearing was perfectly fine. He rested his head in Castiel's lap, chuckling himself.
"Is that all you've got to say to me?"
Castiel smiled brightly down at him, running his hand through Dean's hair and scratching gently at the other man's scalp.
"Would you like some tea?"
A/N
So the setting isn't meant to be any particular country or even WWI. I was just watching some special features from the Lord of the Rings extended editions and had the idea to write a story set in a place that was like England that bled into a war that was like WWI. I based the details of trench life on clips from Horrible Histories.
Also, I got exposed to "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in high school, and it's probably one of my all-time favorite poems. Those particular lines will probably haunt me 'til the end of my days.