The Devil's Epitaph
Summarry:
Dean has spent his whole life hearing about Angels - and Castiel has spent his whole life dreaming about Humans. Neither has actually met one - so when it is announced that Castiel is to be married to a Human prince, and Dean to an Angel, they surely ought to be overjoyed - but when has anything in life gone so simply? Coming to name each other friends, then lovers, then soulmates, then enemies; with odds, armies and the devil himself stacked against them, the question of whether Prince and King will be able to meet in the middle and name the other love grows ever more bleak.
And somehow, as in all things, Angel and Human come to prove "Our almost instinct almost true": "What will survive of us is love".
"Once upon a time, an angel and a devil fell in love. It did not end well."
― Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone
A/N: So, here it is at last! I took way too long in trying to make this perfect, and so I've just decided to post Chapter 1 and hope for the best. I hope this lives up to expectations! To give you all an understanding of this, without too many spoilers, this work is going to be the ENORMOUS (like, well over 20 chapters, each chapter over 10,000 words) kind of big. It'll start out pretty simple, and I'm sorry if a simple love story is all you wanted; but things are going to begin to pick up and complicate themselves at a fairly drastic rate, with intrigue, betrayal and a swarm of family secrets all tangling together to ruin any simplicity Dean and Castiel could have dreamed of. Demon!Dean is going to feature (but much later on), I'm currently unsure about descriptions of violence/how graphic they will be (if they feature, as with any smut, I'll put warnings in the chapter notes as to severity and where in the chapter they feature), but bear in mind that both Dean and Castiel will come to fight in war throughout the story. I can't really tell you how long this is going to be, but a lot over 200,000 words for sure.
As for what part of Medieval history this is set it, I don't really know. I'm not a historian. Also, it's a fantasy world, so there's that. And as with The Lord of the Rings, I suppose dependent on geographical location, a lot of places are going to seem a lot more advanced than others. I'm doing my best at writing the cultures/nations described in here as uniquely as possible, so forgive me if they're not entirely convincing.
The language that the Angels speak (which will be called Enochian) is based off John Dee and Edward Kelley's Enochian, Hebrew and Aramaic, and a few others. This isn't true of ALL names and places, and isn't really relevant for the first couple of chapters, but I thought I'd just explain that here. The culture and religion of the Angels is pretty much unified, with a couple of branches that aren't entirely dissimilar, and strands within the main religion. It gets explored later on. The language of the Humans is a bit more complicated, because there are so many, but culture and language in Hera (Dean's kingdom) is mainly based off western (Greek, Medieval English and a tiny bit of Celtic I guess). I'll go over that later on. Kingdoms like Dione are different, and the Demon kingdoms are going to be VERY different, but they'll be explored later. All the names have meanings, so if you want to look those up, go ahead! I might write them all down in chapter notes later on, but not now.
I hope that's all pretty clear. If anyone wants to beta the next couple of chapters, that'd be deeply appreciated, if anyone wants to draw fanart(!) of this 'verse, I'd love you forever and definitely post it on here. I'll make a tumblr for this story (thedevilsepitaph) answering any questions you have, and posting updates etc about the story.
I'm also considering having every fifth chapter being from another character's perspective - every chapter at the moment alternates between Dean, Cas's, Dean, Cas's POV, and I understand if another character's chapter interrupting that isn't really ideal for you? The other option is writing companion stories to go alongside. Let me know what you think!
And that's all I can think of. No chapter warnings apply for this chapter. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1—Fairy Tales
"I remember my childhood as a long wish to be elsewhere."
— Louise Glück, from "Unpainted Door"
"Really, John, what's the issue?" Sir Robert sits opposite Dean at the great long table in the Dining Hall of Castle Hera, speaking directly to only the King, who looks like he'd very much prefer not to be having this conversation. John rests his chin in his palm and refuses to look at his High-Thane of the Royal Court and Grand-Chancellor of some thirteen years. Dean glances up for a moment at Sir Robert, the raggedy, aging man he has grown to regard so affectionately over the course of his life: it's usual for him to have very little idea of what it is Chancellor and his father are talking about—particularly when they are discussing matters of the Kingdom over meals—and Dean in general tries to avoid such disputes; simply because both his father and Bobby seem to get so worked up with one another. But on this occasion, something about the High-Thane's tone seems markedly different to all the conversations Dean has grown so used and so indifferent to, something about his voice makes the subject-matter seem urgent and covert.
Bobby's beard remains, in general, relatively untrimmed the vast majority of the time; and Dean is sure that the man could pass as a farmer of the lowlands if he were to stop donning doublets of deep reds and purples and start wearing some of the plain, loose shirts tied unevenly at the neck that the masses in the citadel below so often seem to wear. As it is, Sir Robert's appearances are so often untidy that Dean often comments that the adviser and close friend of his father could just as easily be one who worked in the stables as one who led the Royal Courts and meetings of Hera's Ealdors.
"The issue?!" John repeats incredulously. Dean feels his gut twist uncomfortably; the motion an oddly accurate reflection of the scowl worming its way across his father's face. "How about the fact that when our Kingdom needed Angel support the most, none was given? Even when we asked—nay, begged for it?! How about the fact that only now, after thirteen years, they finally come to aid us in the effort against the Demons?" John punctuates this final part of the sentence with a sharp bang of his closed fist against the dark, ruddy table; and Dean winces as he stares down at his food, feeling discomfort at the situation burn across his skin. His face feels hot, his ears in particular. Can't Bobby and his father save this discussion for later? When Dean doesn't have to be present and cringing in his seat across from them?
The darkwood table makes a shuddering, dull sound under his father's fist, and Dean is only glad that Sammy isn't here; that the boy dined earlier that day with Ellen and his page: he seems to hate conflict and arguments even more than Dean does—and moments such as these, where the King works himself up to quite such a frustrated state, are horrible to have to sit through for any amount of time. Dean bites the inside of his mouth and pretends to examine the carvings on the table which have never seemed to bear so much interest as they do now; the carvings of ancient battles won and lost, and of dragons and griffins and risen dead and the foolish kings and wise queens of old.
"You don't know that's all that they're coming to speak about—do you remember what they said? About one of them and—" Bobby makes a peculiarly vague, uncomfortable gesture towards Dean, just as he had been marking each feather of an open pair of wings on the carved table belonging to one of the High Kings of ancient times. He had been pretending that he could hardly hear the hardly muted debate taking place across from him, feigning utter ignorance and hiding the fact that he notes every syllable of these debates. Now, however, Dean sits up a little straighter in his chair, curiosity and confusion twisting slightly in his veins as he looks up at Bobby and his father, seated across from him.
"That's the other thing." John frowns, his face setting in some kind of grim resolution. "I don't know how I feel about my son marrying one of those—" He makes another gesture, not dissimilar to the one Bobby had made, and Dean frowns again. "—Creatures." He finishes bitterly, as though the word sets a bad taste in his mouth.
"What?" Dean asks, perplexed although not unaware that he is interrupting as he stares up at the tired lines of his father's face.
"Dean, we'll talk about this later—" Dean's father sighs from the head of the table, rubbing his face with the heel of his calloused palm and looking altogether incredibly drained, visibly brushing Dean's question aside with his other hand. The evening light from the stained glass window of the dining hall streams through the room, dappling itself across the King's bronze coronet; and under it the King's skin looks an odd mix of oranges, purples, yellows and blues. Dean thinks absently that this is probably better than the angry red that it probably really is at this moment in time.
"You really ought to tell him now, My Lord." Bobby frowns with intent at the King.
John glares at his adviser. "Don't—"
"Tell me what?" Dean stares at both of the men sat opposite him. Why are they behaving so oddly? On most occasions, were Dean to take an interest in the affairs of the Kingdom, they would both be visibly relieved—taking it as a sign that Dean was finally wanting to come to terms with some of his responsibilities as a prince and take a hand in organising the affairs of the Kingdom, as is his royal duty—but now they both look as though they'd rather be a hundred leagues from the dining hall they are seated in.
"Dean, you can't be expected to understand—"
"Yes I can—" Dean frowns again, his face setting into a hard, frustrated expression. He's sixteen, dammit. "If it involves me, then I should know—especially if it involves marriage." He glares at the two older men, watching as John in particular squirms in his seat, and Bobby sighs into his hand. "You did say marriage, didn't you?" He glowers.
"Dean, you're a child, you can't—"
"They've—the Angels, that is—have asked us if you would want to marry one of their own." Bobby explains, interrupting John rather pointedly. The King scowls at the disruption, twisting at the ring that sits on the fourth finger of his left hand, as seems to be his habit when feeling frustrated or uncomfortable.
"They've asked me—just me—if Dean could marry one of them." John corrects, his words bitten out a little more than is needed, but Bobby simply glares at the King in response. Dean has never met anyone who is as prepared as Bobby to speak or act quite so rudely toward the King of Hera, the most powerful man of the Earthly Kingdoms.
"And whatever happens will be utterly Dean's choice." Bobby sighs, putting a great deal of emphasis on each of his words and turning back to Dean. Dean finds himself suddenly unable to make eye contact with the older man and instead examines the servants scuttling in meek nervousness around the edge of the hall. They never dare stray too close during these fights for fear of the King lashing out at them for causing a distraction. Right now, Dean can sympathise an awful lot. "This will be their first visit down in several centuries, as I'm sure you're aware, and so it's also a very important one—for a mass of reasons. The Angels say they're going to become a lot more involved with affairs down here, once more—"
"—About time." John scowls, but Bobby brushes his comment aside with a roll of his eyes and another sigh of annoyance. Were anyone else this blunt and dismissive with the King, Dean is fairly certain they'd spend a cold fortnight in the castle dungeons, if they were lucky—yet as it is, Sir Robert seems to be able to get away with close enough to murder around Dean's father. "And with that, they want to strengthen the bonds between their Kingdoms and ours. You marrying one of them—well, honestly, it would be of great benefit to the Kingdom of Hera and to all the other Human Kingdoms." Bobby explains. Dean's insides are trembling—he grips at the ornate silver cutlery in his hands tight enough that he can feel the metal engraved with his family crest beginning to give, his knuckles turning white.
"Why me?" Dean asks, an odd, terrified hollow forming in his chest.
"Sammy's too young, Dean. Far too young. You know that."
"I'm young, too!" Dean counters, the frown worming its way further across his face. "Father—you just called me a child!"
"You're seventeen; you'll be crowned prince, officially, very soon."
"Why not someone from the other Kingdoms?" Dean asks. Someone else. There's got to be anyone else—doesn't the Kingdom of Dione have a Princess around Dean's age?! Dean is sure she's only a few years younger than himself—and what about Eofor? Surely the Angels would much prefer to have one of their own marry into the nobility of the shining, ancient Kingdom of Eofor.
"There is no one else." John sighs. "At least nobody that they want. I don't know if there even is any royal blood of the right age in the other Kingdoms."
There definitely is. Dean's father is wrong—Bobby is wrong—the Angels are wrong—Dean isn't getting married; he can't, he won't—
"What if I say no?" He asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a terrified flurry of what feels a little like desperate hope. Maybe Dean can refuse—Bobby had said it was Dean's choice, hadn't he? Dean can say no; he can politely decline, all this terribleness can be over and done with. Dean can't marry someone; he's not ready and he's not happy with the thought—and an arranged marriage?!
"That'd be pretty damn selfish of you." John scowls from the head of the table. Dean's gaze flickers from defiantly meeting his father's own gaze to the throne his father sits on at meal times. "And if I have to accept this, Dean, then you should, too."
It is at these words that Dean's insides tremble with frustration.
"Why exactly would it be selfish of me?" Dean asks angrily.
"Because this marriage would benefit both our kingdom, and the Angels." Dean's father replies just as quickly. Apparently there's no room for argument—not that this means that Dean is going to stop trying. "And we need all the support we can get, frankly."
"So it's only about the war, then?" Dean glares.
Of course. It's always about the war. Dean struggles to find any amount of reasons as to why this should come as a surprise—but he cannot find an explanation for the fact that this knowledge still drives a thin, sharp dagger of pain through his heart. Maybe he'd hoped his father had cared for more than revenge in at least one of the milestones of Dean's life.
"Dean, these are the sacrifices you have to make when you're royalty. You should know that by now!" Apparently Dean is being frustratingly slow to understand, judging by his father's tone—but it isn't fair that John should get so infuriated over this, particularly when Dean is the one being so appallingly wronged here.
"I don't want to—" Dean's jaw is tightening and he can feel the humiliating press of tears at his eyes, stinging at the place just behind his vision. His hand moves to grip the long table, instead of the silver of his knife and fork, desperate for an object a little more grounding to touch. He feels anxious, suddenly as though he's floating away from the earth, his head spinning while his father's ugly words of duty and responsibility come ringing in his ears.
"—And you don't have to." Bobby reassures before John can interrupt again. Bobby's voice cuts through Dean's thoughts and it feels as though a cord that had been winding tighter and tighter inside of Dean has suddenly been severed. It almost makes him want to slump with something not dissimilar to relief. "Whatever happens, it's up to you, Dean. We're not going to force you to do anything, especially if you don't want to. And you won't have to make your decision for a long while, anyway."
Dean tries to take a steadying breath—one to even out the thoughts storming in his mind, but it's not easy. Questions—he still has so many unanswered questions. He breathes again and resolves to ask them.
"Who would I be marrying?" He looks back up at Sir Robert, because the pain inside his chest is telling him that looking up at his father is going to be a little too much of an agonising task.
There is an excruciating silence. Dean can recognise what it means all too well. He grimaces at it, discomfort and frustration coiling sharply through him.
"Who would I be marrying?" He asks again, wincing at how slowly he probes the question through his nearly gritted teeth.
"We don't know, yet." Bobby admits, glancing down. "They haven't said."
The tension stretching inside of Dean's chest snaps suddenly, and unlike earlier this motion is not of a relief to Dean.
"For fuck's sake!" He shouts—his voice has risen stunningly quickly in his anger, and Dean would have almost felt surprised at himself if it wasn't for the near fury boiling his insides in the moment. "This is a fucking arranged marriage—that's all it is!"
"Dean!" John snaps, making Dean flinch back where he sits, his temper cooling quickly. His hand finds the edge of the darkwood table again. It grips hard enough that Dean's fingers go numb, prickling only occasionally with pinheads of pain in protest of the pressure Dean puts them under—he stares back down at his lap, face burning with shame. He wants to return to his quarters, to sleep, to scream into his pillow or vent to Sammy or Ellen; but he can't do any of these things, because he's needed here and Dean has a duty to remain in his father's presence until he is excused.
It feels as though the weight of the Four Earthly Kingdoms have been dropped suddenly and without warning onto his shoulders.
"I've been writing to the King of Evadne—that is, the High King of all the Angels, Michael— who says that the one you'll be marrying is a member of their royal family." Bobby explains.
"Great, so they're not marrying me off to a travelling silk merchant." Dean spits, resting his chin on top of the palm of his hand. "I'll remember to count my fucking blessings."
John growls again.
"You'd do well to speak with more respect when they arrive, boy."
Dean looks away.
"He's nobility, yes, Dean." Sir Robert sighs.
"So it's a he?" Dean raises his eyebrows. "The one I'm marrying?"
"Yes."
"At least I know one thing about him." Dean grumbles, looking down pointedly—but he hears his father heave a sigh diagonal to him, and his face heats yet again.
"Angel culture is very different to our own, Dean." Bobby speaks frustratingly patronisingly to Dean. "They don't treat love the same way humans do—"
"I can tell." Dean bites. Right now, he isn't feeling any amount of affection or adoration for the Angels or their culture, and he doesn't want to receive a lecture on it from Bobby.
"Listen, Dean." John sighs, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand, yet again. Something about the motion is immensely frustrating to Dean. "You have to make these kinds of sacrifices when you're royalty." Dean has already heard this crap a thousand times before, yet the words still cause magma to set its way through his bloodstream. "You'll understand when you're king."
There it is again. The reminder of Dean's responsibilities. Dean looks down, unable to maintain eye contact with either his father or with Bobby.
"Fine." He nods hollowly. "I'll meet them."
"This is for the benefit of the kingdom, Dean." John reminds. His voice has gone gentle again, but it does nothing to soothe the storm raging in Dean's heart.
"I know." Dean swallows. He steels himself slightly. There is a silence. It is painfully awkward for a few agonisingly long moments, and a tense, anxious worry strikes deep into Dean's gut as a particular thought crosses his mind. "How am I going to tell Sammy?" He looks up at the two men. "Would marrying one of them—would it mean leaving him all alone, here?" He asks, searching first Bobby's, then his father, the King's, eyes.
"This is a time of great uncertainty, Dean…" John starts awkwardly.
"Would it mean leaving Sammy?" Dean asks again, voice trembling. "Living up there," He gestures outside one of the windows, probably not even in the right direction, "with the Angels?" He continues glaring at Bobby and John, watching them shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Of course, neither of them have an answer for Dean.
Dean doesn't want to marry anyone, let alone an Angel.
Angels are cowards, he decided long ago. They are all too happy with surrounding themselves in their own self-righteousness; with being worshipped and idolised and adored by humanity below them, who all the while are getting slaughtered by each other as much as they are by the Demons from the deserts across the Great Sea.
Dean has spent his whole life hearing about the Angels.
Angels have become the things of fairy tales to Humans over the years. Their kind are the subjects of bedtime stories told by parents to their children, they are the soft reassurance to those suffering nightmares and fits of terror. The quiet calm of the hushed words "Angels are watching over you" has stemmed the flow of childish tears and soothed the nerves of countless generations of Humans. Angels are fairy-tales and the characters of myth and legend; the subject of fascination and enthrallment for scholars and philosophers as well as children.
But they exist nonetheless. Not that anyone alive now would know it, though—they haven't visited the Earthly Realm in centuries, and most people have accepted that they never will.
To Dean, Angels had once been infinitely captivating. He still doesn't know what it is, exactly—something had always drawn him, uncontrollably, constantly, to their stories, to the myths and folklore surrounding them and each of their ways.
He had listened, since his childhood, to the tales of their kingdoms, of their customs, of each and every one of their traditions. As a child he was captivated by their ways, so oddly different to those of Humans, and yet bearing undeniable similarities—like a skewed mirror image where everything on the other side seems that little bit more fantastical.
As a child, Dean had asked of their stories to anyone who would answer him, paying rapt attention to whatever it was they had to say. He loved hearing of the Angels. Dean used to drink up those words like water.
He doesn't any more.
The Angels live up the mountains—the mountains so high that no human dares to venture there; the mountains so far north that to attempt to cross onto their borders would be a near death wish. Before the Great Mountains in which the Angels live are far smaller ones, and before that, miles of rolling emerald hills. There, the hill tribes of the north dwell; technically part of the Human Kingdoms, although they rarely act like it. Bobby says they spend their lives on horseback and do not farm or plough the land as most Humans do; but live off it by hunting and foraging for edible plants; moving from place to place when this food runs low, living constantly on foot. Most people in Hera speak of such tribes dismissively, but something about the freedom with which they seem to live has always fascinated Dean.
The Angel Kingdoms are often called the Heavenly Realms—although Dean has no idea if this is what the Angels themselves call their dwelling—the mountains are where the Angels' cities and towns and villages are—so high up from the earth that they are almost touching the clouds. This was what Dean's mother had always told him. She once said that the Angels live so far up in the sky that they practically dwelt in the heavens.
The mountainous regions stretch around three of the four Earthly Kingdoms—these are the kingdoms occupied by Humans. The mountains cloak the horizon in their misted, dark grey silhouettes.
Dean has always dreamed of venturing out to visit them one day. Visiting the mountains, the Angels, was a thought that once occupied his mind more than any other subject. On many a night, he would stare out of his bedroom window, out into the sky, watching the way that the clouds swirl over the heads of the mountains, encompassing their peaks. He imagined each time what it must be like to live there with the Angels; to live so high up that you are able to wake up each morning and look out across the entire earth, just as the rising sun must do each day. He has long since stopped doing so—he has long since grown up.
Years ago, Dean would watch the sun set behind the mountains each night, fascinated by the way their peaks trapped its rays for short, mesmerising bursts of time. As a child he had thought this happened because of the Angels' powers: he had been convinced the Angels used magic to capture the sun's rays around their land, for those fleeting, brief moments, just for the sheer innocent beauty of it—to watch the rays dance off of the rocks that surrounded their home in one glorious moment of molten gold.
He had always been so enchanted by their tales, by their culture.
He still is—but he'll never admit to that now.
Dean's mother had sparked the fascination deep within him. She would tell him stories of the Angels, late in the evening, before she kissed him softly on his forehead and wished him a peaceful night's sleep, humming an old lullaby under her breath, her voice more delicate than dewy cobwebs on Autumn mornings and twice as beautiful. She had told him of how the Angels were the most beautiful, the wisest, the oldest and most powerful of all the three of the corporeal races of their world. She had explained how they were the most ancient of beings in all the lands of the earth.
The three races—the Angels, the Demons, and the Humans, all live as separate nations. Their collection of kingdoms, their realms, are all separated by at least one natural barrier—whether this is the great sea, barring between the land of the Humans and that of the Demons, or the mountains themselves, separating Human territory from Angels' with miles of rising rock. There has grown to be a great distrust between each of the races. Dean can remember being told by his tutor on countless occasions that humankind has not spoken to or interacted with the Angels in many ages; that the Angels were the ones who severed ties.
Apparently, the age of silence has ended.
Dean's Kingdom has been at war with both of the Demon Kingdoms for thirteen years. For what feels like Dean's entire lifetime, he has spent each dinner with his father, the King, listening to discussions of tactics in battle; of ways they might be able to win the war, ways in which to defeat the enemy. Not all the Earthly Kingdoms have joined in with this fight—two have had to drop in and out of the war effort because of their own responsibilities and military needs, and one kingdom, Dione, has never joined in Dean's Kingdom's fight against the Demons at all.
But Dean's Kingdom never stops in the war. Dean's father never stops.
According to some myths, Angels can live forever. This isn't how Dean's mother, Mary, had always explained things, and so Dean has decided that he isn't sure if he believes it. Dean has always felt almost threatened by the idea that something could be so ancient, so powerful, and yet, it is equally fascinating—reassuring of the Angels' might and power—to think that any one of them could be quite so aged.
North or the Earthly Realms are the Heavenly Kingdoms—these are the kingdoms occupied by the Angels. Angels roam the streets there, which Dean imagines are embedded with jewels and plated with gold—where they would go home to their families; they would buy their food—do Angels need food? Dean still finds it strange to think that they could feel hunger. But then, all creatures eat. Surely Angels could be no different?
The Angel dwellings sit high overhead in the mountains, away from possible attacks from both Demons and Humankind. Dean had, as a child, always felt as though he could understand this, with war and battle so constantly raging in the zones below Angel dwelling. Dean has spent his childhood thinking of how very astute this was of the Angels, to live such withdrawn lives. The wisdom of restraint. The King does not sympathise with the Angels so much. He has always seen the Angel's lack of involvement as indifference at best. Either this, or cowardice. Dean supposes that this is a burden which must come with being a king—one which he will have to bear, too, one day—the burden of being so continuously disenchanted.
John has always said that he dislikes the Angels. He still says it, although now Dean finds himself agreeing far more than he used to—far more than Dean's childhood self would probably like to know. John takes such a different stance to the creatures of the Heavenly Realms than the one that Dean had once taken. He takes an astonishingly different stance to that of Dean's mother, Mary, when she had been alive. But Dean understands now.
When the Demon Kingdom of Aiathen had attacked their own kingdom, the Queen, Dean's mother, had been slaughtered. She had been trying to protect her children when it had happened—specifically, trying to protect her youngest son, Samuel. Her death had shattered Dean's father's now agonisingly brittle heart irreparably, and had splintered into Dean's own. When John had called for help from the Angels, to seek revenge on the Demons, to wage a war against them for the loss of his wife and so many of the kingdom's citizens; none had arrived—and so for thirteen years, John has blamed the Angels for the fact he had been unable to seek revenge and find peace, at last.
"They stay up in their clouds, Dean, up in their mountains, where they think they're better than the rest of us—choosing to grace us with their presence every few centuries—just when it suits them, mind—but when we ask them for help?! For aid? For support, for an army? Where the fuck are they, Dean? Where the fuck are they?"
Dean would bite down quietly on his lip, glancing at the floor and shrugging as he always did when the King worked himself up into a bitter frenzy on these matters. At a remarkably early age, Dean learnt that it was no use disagreeing with or debating such things with his father.
"I'll tell you where—" Dean's father would continue, a cutting combination of malice and despondency filling his eyes. "They're turning their noses up at us. They think they're too good to help us, they pretend they can't see from up there in the clouds. They've convinced themselves that they're better than us."
At this, Dean would look away, biting away the shame of his own heartbreak.
John Winchester is certain that the Angels do not care at all for humanity. He is convinced that they still hold little regard for the suffering of others—particularly Humans; that they value the lives of a few of their own more than they do whole legions of Humans.
Dean's mother had never taught him things like that. All that John has said of the Angels after her death contradicts all her stories completely—all her stories of the wise and powerful Angels, the race of people as old as time itself, whose history is richer and deeper than the Cerydien sea running thickly between the Human territories and that of the Demons'. Legend has it that the Angels, in all their compassion, had placed the great, glittering sea between the land of the Humans and the Demons at the very beginning of Humanity's time in the universe, just after the birth of the first Earthly Kingdom, to separate the Humans from the Demons. To keep them safe. Dean's mother had always said that this was why the rivers that fed into the Great Sea could be traced back to the hearts of the mountains in which the Angels dwelt. She'd said the streams that formed the rivers had been made long ago by the Angels for humanity's protection.
"A great lot of fucking good it did us." Dean's father would spit whenever Dean thought to bring this up. He would gesture bitterly, miserably, to the empty throne beside his own as he said this, and Dean would look down, tears sparking in his own eyes as he bore the weight of discovering that two sets of beings he once fiercely idolised were nowhere near as wise nor as benevolent as he had once believed.
Both the Angels and Dean's father had let him down to an irreparable degree.
This said, Dean had once desperately wanted to keep the fairy tales alive. He couldn't bring himself to let his father's harsh words dent his faith. He had felt that the Angels had to be everything his mother had said they were—he hadn't known what he'd do if they weren't everything he had dreamed them to be.
The four Earthly Kingdoms—the nations in which humanity dwells—are mainly surrounded by the mountains. Three of the four are completely encompassed—these are the kingdoms of Hera, Eofor, and Corinna.
Eofor—the oldest of all the four; is said to be where mankind first originated. It is where the Angels witnessed the birth of humanity from on top of their mountains, and, for a time, had come down from their dwellings to assist and to guide the Humans through all things. Eofor is the kingdom situated furthest from the sea of Cerydien—and so is the safest place for humans to settle if protection from the Demons is what they desire. Since the first kingdom, Humans have only strayed closer to the boundaries marked out by the great sea; closer to the borders of the Demon Nations. Dean has visited Eofor only once before; when he was a very young boy. This was just following the death of his mother and the outbreak of the war with the Demons. Dean remembers the visit as a mess of rivers and lakes surrounded by forest; all with the closest silhouettes of the mountains on the horizon Dean had ever seen. He felt, if he wanted, that he could walk to the Heavenly Realms and away from the sadness of his own world. The great castle in Eofor had been a mammoth dome of marble and granite surrounded by turrets and low, white walls. It bore a stark contrast to the grey defences of Dean's own home.
The Second Kingdom—the kingdom that is Dean's home, the kingdom he will soon rule over—is the largest of all the Earthly Kingdoms. It stretches from the sea all the way up to the low mountains before the Angel's borders; and Dean suspects that this is the true reason behind why Hera had been attacked thirteen years ago. Dean has always thought that the Demons had planned the attack tactically; they had believed that the clearest root to the Angel's realm was through the Kingdom of Hera.
Dean's father has always insisted that the Angels had set up the Human's kingdoms as a barrier, as a buffer zone against the Demons—that Dean's home was simply a method the Angels had set up to protect themselves from potential attack.
The Third Kingdom that sits beside the mountains is the kingdom of Corinna. Hera, Eofor and Corinna are all allies—particularly in the effort against the Demons and their assaults. Eofor is currently involved in the war against the Demon Kingdoms, too—Corinna was forced to pull back forces a few years ago, due to lack of resources and the demands of their own conflicts, both internal and external. But Dean knows from his father that the land is planning on soon assisting Hera in their efforts again. Corinna is a land filled with marshes and swamps—local folklore tells of the fairies and sprites and spirit folk that dwell in the remotest of these; but Dean swore to himself a long time ago that he would stop trusting in myths and folklore, however harmless the ideas of marshland fairies may be.
Dione is the fourth kingdom—the final kingdom of the Humans. It is the smallest of all of the Earthly Kingdoms, its great castle sits closest to the sea; and is the most closely allied with the Demons. Despite being the smallest of humanity's kingdoms, Dean knows from experience that its armies and methods of war are brutal. Dione, like Hera, lies beside the great sea of Cerydien. After the Angels had watched humanity expand to this point, after Dione had been built, they had stopped involving themselves in the affairs of Humans so often. Legend has it, they feared how tightly allied Dione and the Demon kingdoms were, and would continue to become, and had fled back to the mountains and to their own land. Dean had always disliked this part of the Angels' story. The use of the word 'fled' in particular. It reminded him that even the Angels, the items of myth and lore and his own imagination, were very much imperfect. The move seems almost cowardly—and of course Dean's father constantly latches on to it as further proof of the race's unscrupulous character.
The Earthly kingdoms often face conflict with each other, as well as with the Demons: the most common of these conflicts is that between Corinna and Dione, in a disagreement over the spacing of land and territory—just a few months ago; Dean's father had been forced to go to war against Dione because of how closely allied Corinna and Hera have been these past few decades. Disputes between Corinna and Dione occur very often; as they are set so closely together. Assisting Corinna in their war had been the first time Dean had been in battle—the first time he had seen real bloodshed. He has been training for war, for combat, his whole life—but at sixteen, his father had finally allowed him to actually fight.
Years of idolising the courage and brutality of warfare and fighting could not possibly have prepared Dean for what he saw; and as fate would have it, this idolisation of the affairs of battle served to disadvantage him in the grand scheme of things. After having seen conflict like that; Dean understands why John dislikes the Angels so much for their apparent utter indifference in the affairs of war. He now understands why John is still so furious that no help had arrived when he had asked for it. In comparison to the war against the Demons, what Dean has seen and fought through with Dione is laughable, is child's play. But scars still litter his body from the battlefield, and sleep is something which Dean is deprived of now, more often than not, plagued instead with nightmares of swords sharp enough to cut through chainmail and woken by fits of cold sweats.
War is brutal and merciless. Dean knows this for certain, now. And Angels choose not to become involved, despite the abundance of Human suffering. Dean dislikes this. After seeing war for the first time, Dean stopped idolising Angels. He wishes they would get tangled in Humanity's affairs, just as woven into battle and heartbreak as the Humans are—he wishes they would do something, just as his father wished when the war had only just begun. And so Dean now shares his father's opinions on the cowardly nature of Angelkind.
As far as Dean knows, there are only two Demon Kingdoms. These are the only two any Human seems aware of, at least; the Kingdoms of Aiathen and Heolster. They lie across the sea of Cerydien, and Dean has always been grateful for the natural barrier of the sea, despite how ineffectual as it has proven in the past. As a child, whenever Dean spoke of the Demons to those people who had actually experienced them; had lived through the attack on Hera thirteen years ago, a cold fear struck into the very depths of their eyes. Dean can't bring himself to think of how horrific the attack must have been. He can only remember a very little of it himself—but it's more than enough.
Dean has been told that Demon eyes are black; that a dull, smoky void forms over the entirety of the eye if the Demon so wishes—according to myth, many Demons have eyes varying upon black—some are apparently red, others yellow, and rarer still, an odd, misty white, filling the pupil, the iris, and the entire body of the eye.
The Demons are ferocious and merciless in their battle. Dean knows this for certain. He had only been four years old at the time of the Demon's assault and of his mother's death. Dean's father has been grotesquely intent on revenge for the vast majority of Dean's life. Over the years, the idea of retribution has consumed him—although Dean has no idea how his father plans to achieve justice through war.
Over the stories of Demons, Dean has always much preferred to hear the folklore of the Angels. He used to love the stories of how an Angel's very life force can glow from the pits of their souls, shining out of their bodies, from their eyes, if they wish to show it. He adored hearing of how they destroy Demons with no more than a touch, how they can sink into each other's minds and communicate without word or language, with no voice at all; of how this is what they use to communicate over the great distances of the mountains. Dean has learnt that many believe that Angels can also peer into the depths of a person's soul, if they wish to do so. He has learnt that people had once thought their eyes held the secrets to all things; that one would feel as though an Angel was boring into their mind in a kind of beautiful agony if that Angel's gaze was set steadily on them.
Dean has learnt how their wings; huge in size and length, stretch out, far behind an angel, when they go in to battle, colossal and bold and terrifying against their enemies; but of how they are also softer than silk to the touch. He imagines them to be more delicate than milk glass or bone china.
Dean has also heard that Angels have magic—a magic deeper than that of the sorcerers and seers of the Earthly Kingdoms—Dean has heard that Angels can shake the ground and surrounding buildings at their will; that they can heal the injured with no more than a touch. Dean's mother always said that it was foolish to describe any of this as magic; that it was inaccurate, but Dean had never understood the Angels or the lore surrounding them enough to fully comprehend why. He had thought that when he was older, he would be able to ask his mother exactly what she meant when she said this; and that he'd finally be able to understand. But now Dean is older, and his mother is gone.
As a child, Dean had loved most of all to hear about their wings. Queen Mary had always told Dean that Angel's wings come in a vast array of colours. Many Angel wings are simply white, she said; and others, a velvet black—the most beautiful, blackest black that could ever be imagined. Darker than the night sky before dawn, she said. The Angels who are most common, the lower classes of Angels—although Dean struggles to see how any angel could be considered a lower class—generally have grey wings, or dull cream coloured wings. Royalty and nobility often, if not always, have more than one colour in their feathers.
Mary had always told Dean, whenever he asked, of the most beautiful combination of colours on the wings of an Angel. Dean would listen to her words, sweeter than honey, as she leant over his bed and whispered these great truths to him as though they were radiant secrets, like little stars she had captured in hiding and showed only to Dean. In Dean's mind, each of these stars were infinitely better than any other bedtime story.
Mary's parents—Dean's grandparents—had learnt of the Angels their whole lives; had studied literature and poetry and art of the Angels—they had held a better understanding of Angel traditions, culture, biology, ideology, than anyone else in perhaps any of the Earthly Kingdoms. And they had passed all this knowledge onto their daughter.
She had explained that the colour of an Angel's wings would be telling of different traits of each particular Angel—like palm reading, she had said. Many of the Angel nobility have silver and gold colouring—a sign that they are destined to be great leaders, whether that be of armies or of kingdoms—others have yellows and oranges—this, she had said, shows that they belong in politics, as advisers, as council-members. She said that Angels with red in their wings are great explorers and teachers; that Angels with white and yellow wings are thought to be destined to cause great change. She would speak for hours about the many combinations of wing colours, and what they all meant about an Angel.
Mary had always stopped before explaining the final type of feathered wings that could be found. She always said they were very rare.
Black feathered wings—with distressed blue tips—were a sign of great humanity in an Angel.
Dean had frowned and asked his mother what that meant, whenever she had explained it to him. She would give him a small, knowing smile, and say that perhaps when he was older he would understand. She had always said that Angels, despite all their power and wisdom and integrity, were capable of far less love than most humans are, that they have always had very little comprehension of the term "soul mate" and all its implications. Dean had pointed out that he had very little idea of what soul mates were, too; but Mary had always smiled at this, ruffling his hair gently, and stating that when he was older, he would understand this, also. As with so many other things concerning the Angels, Dean is older, and he still doesn't understand.
Dean doesn't trust the Angels like he used to—he scoffs at his younger self for being so childishly convinced of their righteousness, of their purity and wisdom and grace. Dean's mother had always explained that becoming an adult meant understanding that those you idolise are flawed, too. Once again, Dean hadn't quite understood at the time. But he understands now. He understands whenever he walks in on the king, alone in his quarters or in the main hall, his face blotchy and red, crying because of the loss of his beloved wife, surrounded by empty bottles; his speech slurred and bitter with regret.
He has asked desperately since the time that he had first seen war, why it was that Angels seem so content in watching such suffering without intervening. Perhaps Angels are not just and fair and compassionate, after all. Perhaps Dean's mother had been wrong, an agonising thought, not least because of the fact that everything that Dean had once known of the Angels and life itself came from his mother.
Mary taught Dean that the Angels had three kingdoms. Each of them is apparently flawless in both location and architecture. Dean can believe this—the surrounding mountains, Dean can imagine, would set a beautiful scene for any city.
The Angel Kingdom closest to their own Kingdom, Hera, is named Theia—'The City of Gold', his mother had always called it. It is the smallest of all the Angel Kingdoms, and the youngest of all their territories—although it is still an infinite many ages older than any of the Human Kingdoms. Theia is apparently especially famous for the warriors it has put forward in days of old—which only further adds to the bitter taste at the back of Dean's mouth whenever he thinks of the aid not given to Hera by the Angels thirteen years previously.
The Second Kingdom, Tyrzah, is situated close to Corinna—it stretches round, on the other side of the mountain ranges to Theia. Mary had always told Dean that Tyrzah holds the most skilled artists in all of Althalia. Dean had imagined sculptures and paintings of Angels; massive ones—stretching high above the heads of many, enchanting everyone who looks at them. Dean had always found it easy to believe that a great many Angels were practiced artists.
The First Kingdom, and the oldest in all of those in Althalia, is the kingdom of Evadne. It sits in the middle of the three Angel kingdoms; the most important, most beautiful, most adored and most ancient of all. Of all the Angel kingdoms, Evadne is the one Dean has always desired to visit the most.
But Dean will not be seeing the Angel dwellings—not today, and not ever—because Angels from each of their three Kingdoms will be coming to visit Hera, but Dean will remain unable to see their homes for himself.
Dean wakes depressingly early the morning of the Angel's first visit in centuries. He would have much rather slept in, for as many hours as possible, putting off the upcoming day and whatever it held—but part of him has been completely unable to get any proper sleep. It's the same part of him that is still drunk with excitement for finally seeing Angels, in person, up close, after years of wanting to—Dean loathes with all of his being the part of his soul that so desperately clings onto his childhood fairy tales. It feels as though he is at war with himself, even now. He has been staring up at his ceiling, his heart racing in nervous anticipation, for hours. He has run over—and in fact, is still running over, the same, countless number of questions, over and over in his mind.
What will the Angels be like? Will they be exactly as Dean's mother had always told him? Would they be anything like Dean's mother had told him? Why did they choose to visit Hera and not Eofor? Why did they choose Dean to marry off one of their own to? And who exactly is it that Dean will be marrying?
They echo around his skull, his mind reeling, until Dean almost feels sick. No, definitely feels sick. He still has an awful, humiliating, childish amount of hope when it comes to the Angels. He wants them to be noble, moral, wishes that there is some kind of excuse that they have for not involving themselves in the war between Humanity and Demons, which has been raging ferociously, seemingly endlessly, ever since the death of Mary Winchester.
Dean swallows thickly as he pulls on his shirt—he isn't going to bother dressing particularly smartly, he has decided—it's not worth it. It's not as though he wants to make any kind of positive impressions; anyway. Maybe if he looks deliberately bad—awful—then the Angel expected to marry him will no longer wish to do so… Well, it's some kind of plan, at least, he resolves to himself. Dean sits down on his bed and pulls on his boots, chewing on his bottom lip nervously as he ties the laces—this whole thing—the potential marriage—all of it—is shitting on what Dean has dreamed of since childhood; on an experience he has always imagined would blow all others out of the water.
Meeting the Angels.
He knows that he should feel honoured; that he should be flattered that they consider him suitable enough to marry one of their own—but right now he just feels awfully ill and very apprehensive. Not to mention incredibly pissed that it feels so much like he is being forced into such a life-changing decision as this—and only because it means Hera and the Angel Kingdoms will become closer allies.
He hears a cautious knocking at the door.
"Come in." He calls, sighing deeply.
"Prince Dean," A servant peers round the door nervously. "Your Father, the King, asked me to see if you wanted any assistance—"
"I'm fine." Dean answers quickly, shaking his head.
He does so loathe the notion of servants dressing him. He always has. It isn't just patronising; it's demeaning—and Dean holds this opinion in the full knowledge that every morning, John is dressed by servants. He hates the thought that his father is so certain of his own importance that he has to have other people dress him, even though he is perfectly capable of doing so himself. And surely the servants have better things to do, anyway? Especially today, of all days.
Dean is never going to get dressed by a servant. He's never going to have someone else tie up his boots for him, pull on his shirts. It's fucking belittling—for both parties involved. Dean is an adult. He can fucking dress himself, thank you.
"He wanted to make sure you look presentable for the Angels—"
"I look fine." Dean shrugs, deliberately dismissive—he instantly dislikes his own tone; it sounds far too like the condescension his father's voice takes when speaking to his servants—but Dean reminds himself that he has every excuse to be in a shitty mood, today. He is also aware of the fact that he definitely does not look fine; his shirt has a rip in the right sleeve and either a stain on the collar, or whoever made it decided to try a particularly artistic bit of colouring; but the servant nods shortly, nervously, making Dean cringe internally, and is about to exit when Sam peers round the door.
"This is the first time Angels and Humans will be meeting in over a century, Dean, the least you can do is look nice." Sam says in his infuriating matter-of-fact tone.
"Sammy, shut up." Dean scowls. "And I know it is—you won't stop mentioning it, for one thing—"
"It's an honour!" Sam exclaims excitedly, entering the room properly, now. "You should be honoured—"
"Well, I'm not." Dean says shortly, the words forming bitterly on his tongue. He wrinkles his nose. "I'm not honoured." He says again—and it's true—he isn't. He doesn't want to get married, possibly ever, let alone to someone he hardly knows. And 'hardly knows' is putting it pretty fucking generously at this point, in Dean's humble opinion. "I don't care what an 'amazing opportunity' this is, Sam, I don't give a shit—I don't know if I ever want to marry anyone—and I certainly don't want to marry one of them." He bites, his lip curling slightly, gesturing to an imaginary Angel with disgust. "You can go, now." He says shortly to the servant at the door, who nods, humbly, and exits, closing the door thickly behind them.
"You don't need to be rude, you know." Sam frowns up at Dean, his expression hardening—it only makes Dean smirk down at him.
"What do you mean? I can be as rude to you as I like—you're my brother."
"I meant to that servant, Dean."
"Whatever." Dean rolls his eyes. "That's what they're here for."
"They're here for work—not to be spoken down to—"
"—Fine." Dean admits, rolling his eyes again, exasperatedly—although he feels a guilty coil of shame worm up through him—he's starting to sound far too much like his father. Sammy is right. "I'll find him later, and apologise."
"Good." Sam nods, seeming a little more appeased. "Now, you've still got to get some nicer clothes on than that, Dean, seriously."
"I'll wear whatever the fuck I like—"
"Oh no, you won't," Comes a confident, firm voice from the door.
Dean jumps as Ellen enters the room.
"Ellen, geez, haven't you ever heard of knocking?!"
"Oh, please," Ellen laughs, a little patronisingly, stepping further inside the room and closing the door behind her. "I had a hand in raising you, kid; I don't need to knock on your door to come in."
"I'm not a kid." Dean scowls, his jaw clenching slightly.
"You still are to me." Ellen smiles, ruffling his hair and walking over to the windows, opening Dean's curtains widely. Dean blinks hard and glowers at the sunlight now streaming into the room. Ellen laughs at Dean's face and pulls out a doublet from his wardrobe to replace Dean's loose—slightly discoloured—white tunic. It's a dark green; its collar embroidered with gold thread, and looks altogether far too smart for Dean to have any time for. "Come on, wear this!" She says, gesturing to the item. "It's much nicer than that old, shabby thing you're wearing now. You look so untidy in that! At least try to make a good impression, Dean!"
"I don't care how shabby I look, or about what impression I make." Dean grumbles. "I like this one." He gestures to the tunic he is wearing. "And actually, I don't want to make an impression unless it's a really fucking bad one."
"Hey, Dean." Ellen says, her tone changing somewhat from the playful, teasing tone it had been previously to the now very sympathetic, understanding one. Dean relaxes at the sound—it's caring and maternal and everything Ellen knows that Dean misses from his mother. "This might not be so bad. And nobility does it all the time—it's the price you have to pay for being born into this sort of family—"
"John didn't get an arranged marriage." Dean grumbles, looking down at the floor.
"I know; but your father was sort of rebelling a bit when he did that. Marriages—in your class, especially, Dean—they're usually—"
"—For the benefit of the kingdom." Dean deadpans, interrupting Ellen and filling the rest of the sentence in for her. "I know."
And he does—he's heard the phrase countless times over the past few months. People have thrown it around, tossed it over to him whenever they run out of things to say to counter Dean's objections to the entire affair. It's meant to be reassuring, a steady reminder for Dean of who he is, of who he's doing this for; but every time someone says it to him, Dean finds it really quite fucking patronising.
"And this isn't an arranged marriage, or whatever you want to call it, honey." Ellen comforts, her tone still soft. She rubs Dean's shoulder gently and hands him the other robe. Dean takes it reluctantly. "You do still have a choice in this. But at least meet the Angel—for all you know, you might like him."
Dean shakes his head. He doubts it.
"Angels are cowards." He says bitterly, as Ellen pulls out some more smart items of clothing for him to wear. Sammy watches as Dean takes them, settling down on the bed. Dean ruffles his hair affectionately as he walks past his younger brother, his heart softening a little.
"What makes you say that?"
"They are." Dean shrugs, his lip curling harshly, once again. "Why do you think they never involve themselves in our affairs? Why do you think they live way up there, up in the mountains?" Dean asks, gesturing outside the now open window, out to the horizon beyond them. "They're cowards. They love being worshipped, but they can't stand protecting what's right."
"You're starting to sound like your father." Ellen observes unhappily, picking up the clothing Dean had left strewn on his bedroom floor that morning, when he had been deciding on what he could wear for the day that would give off the worst first impression possible.
"Good." Dean says shortly, sitting down next to his brother on the bed, and pulling off the old shirt.
"You used to love the Angels." Sam says quietly.
"I did." Dean admits with little trouble, shrugging slightly. "But I don't anymore." He pulls on the doublet Ellen had given him a few moments previously. "They're cowards." He repeats. "Self worshipping cowards."
"Your mother would have begged to differ." Ellen says, frowning down at Dean's choice of boots before pulling a newer, cleaner pair out of his wardrobe. "Put these ones on instead. Those are disgusting. Why you haven't thrown them out yet is a mystery to me."
Dean sighs and hauls off the boots, not bothering to untie the laces.
"I use them for riding." He shrugs carelessly. "And anyway," He continues, "my mother's dead." He swallows thickly as he says this, at how blunt his tone seems to be. "And I don't believe in fairy tales anymore."
Ellen sighs again. She looks forlorn at Dean's comment, and it's upsetting for him to see, if he is honest with himself—but he ignores her disappointed expression, even though it makes him swallow thickly with guilt.
Dean rubs awkwardly at a scar on his right arm, wincing slightly at the pain—it is from where he was hit by an enemy's sword during battle, and still hurts a little to touch—the wound had been very deep. There had been an awful lot of blood. Ellen had given him an ointment for all his scars; an oil that would apparently help them heal faster, but Dean always struggles with putting it on him, especially the marks left on his back, which stretch at awkward angles behind him on the damaged skin just beyond his reach. Of course, he doesn't have the heart to ask anyone for help with this.
"You need some more medicine for those?" Ellen asks, gesturing to Dean's arm.
Dean nods, biting his lip slightly as he rubs awkwardly at the spot again.
"Yeah." He confirms. "If you could get me some, that'd be great."
"I can do that." Ellen nods, smiling gently.
"Thanks, Ellen."
Ellen was once Sam and Dean's Nanny—well, she still sort of is—although Dean would hate to admit that out loud. She had one of the closest hands in raising Dean after Mary's death; and lost her husband in the Demon war soon after Dean's own mother was lost. Ellen has one daughter—Jo. She's rather like a sister to Dean; and despite their different social classes, Dean considers her a very close friend. John has always had a habit of complaining about that. John thinks that servants should be servants—nothing else—no matter how large a part they have played in a person's life. Dean wants to disagree, desperately, and hopes more than anything that when he is king he won't share his father's rigid opinions on social casting.
"What was fighting in a war like, Dean?" Sam asks, looking up at Dean. Dean smiles down at the curious, hazel eyes peering up at him, despite himself.
"Definitely not something for you to take part in, Sammy. You're too young. We've gotta keep you safe."
Sam rolls his eyes at his brother, pouting slightly, which only makes Dean smirk.
"I'm old enough." He grumbles, crossing his arms. Dean hears Ellen huff a disbelieving laugh behind him.
"Nope." Dean grins, shaking his head. "You're definitely not. I was sixteen, and to be honest, I don't think I was ready. You're only thirteen, and a bit of a wimp," Dean laughs as Sam scowls at this. "—Nah, I'm only kidding Sam—but I'm not kidding when I say that you're far too young and far too important to me. And I don't want you to get involved in that shit, anyway. It's not any fucking good for a person."
Ellen swipes at Dean for his crude language, but Dean just grins, still more, and ignores her.
He won't tell Sammy any more than that. He doesn't want his brother to know about the horrors of warfare—of which there are admittedly a great many—and of which Dean has seen far too great a number. Sometimes Dean will still wake up in the dead of night in a cold sweat, having been plagued with nightmares of the terror of battle.
"I'm nearly fourteen." Sammy counters, frowning indignantly, but Dean merely shakes his head.
"You're way too young." Dean says again, quite protectively, this time. "And you always will be, for that matter."
Ellen shoots him a quietly grateful look. Dean knows what she thinks about conflict and war, too; and while there was a time where Dean would have disagreed completely, he definitely understands her views now. In fact, he shares them—as much as he no longer believes in the nobility of Angels, he also no longer believes in the nobility of battle.
"Right, Dean, let me take a look at you." Ellen says, stepping in front of Dean from where he is sitting on the bed. "Stand up." She instructs. Dean does this, grinning in amusement. "Turn around." She says. He turns to face Ellen again, who is looking rather thoughtful. "Hm." Ellen bites her lip. "I guess it'll have to do."
Dean laughs and grins smugly at Ellen, who rolls her eyes and pats down his hair a little.
"You're a prince, Dean—or, nearly one, at least. You shouldn't look like you were raised in a barn."
Sam chuckles, and Dean tries to bat him away with his hand but Sammy dodges it and sticks his tongue out in Dean's direction.
"Right," Ellen sighs, reprimanding both of them silently with a warning look. "The two of you had better be on your best behaviour today. I hope I don't need to remind you how important all this is."
"I know." Dean sighs, rolling his eyes again. "And please don't, anyway. It's all anyone talks about at the moment."
"That's because it is important, Dean." Sammy tries to cut across, but this time, Dean does manage to swat his brother away with his hand.
"Dean," Ellen says, her voice taking on an eerily reprimanding tone. Dean immediately straightens up, looking back at Ellen. "Please, just try." She sighs. "Do this for your father—"
"John isn't happy about the Angels coming either."
"Yes, but at least he understands what an important day this is. For all of us." Ellen straightens out Dean's doublet, tightening its metal fastenings. "This really is for the kingdom's good, Dean."
"I wish everyone would stop saying that." Dean's voice has turned bitter and tired once more, and he instantly dislikes how childish it sounds.
"Fine, it's for all of humanity's benefit, too. And you should be honoured that they chose our kingdom to visit first. To be honest, I think we were all expecting that they'd go to Eofor first; anyway—it is the oldest of our kingdoms, remember?"
"I know." Dean sighs. Sometimes Ellen acts like he doesn't have a tutor to teach him all this pointless 'History of the Nine Kingdoms' bullshit. "And the only reason they chose our kingdom was so that they could marry one of their own off."
"For the good of both the Angels, and the Humans. And I'm sure whichever Angel they picked for the job understands that, too. And anyway, Dean, like we've all said countless times before; you still have a choice in this. It might not even happen, you know."
Dean looks down, swallowing again.
"I sure hope not."
Dean really doesn't want to meet any Angels anymore.
"Come on, let's head down to the Great Hall HHnow. They'll be here soon, and I've got to be ready to greet them at the door as a servant; and you've got to be ready to welcome them in there. And you'll have to be on your best behaviour, Dean." Ellen reminds again.
"You've already said that." Dean states, flatly.
"Yes, and it's because I actually want you to do it." Ellen says, sternly, tugging Dean out of his bedroom.
"Ellen—"
"I don't want to hear it, Dean. We're not asking for much. Sam, are you coming?" She calls behind her.
"Yep!" Sam calls back, pushing himself off Dean's bed and following them out the door, bounding after them in a manner that makes Dean's lips twitch upwards in an affectionate smile, if only for a moment. It quickly falls when he reminds himself of what he has to do today.
"Are you feeling alright about all of this, Dean?" Ellen asks as they walk down one of the castle's corridors, Sam running on ahead of them, bouncing excitedly as he does so.
"What do you mean?"
"How do you feel?"
"Like shit, Ellen. I've already told you—I don't want to do any of this."
"Nobody's making you."
"You keep saying that, but—"
"You becoming engaged isn't even the point of the Angels visit." Ellen sighs as they turn a corner. "This whole thing is a meeting about the war with the Demons—and the Angels becoming involved with it."
"I know." Dean rolls his eyes. "And it's about time, too, by the way—"
"Uh-uh." Ellen shakes her head sternly, turning to look at Dean as she walks. "Don't you dare get started on that—your father will be bad enough, but if you get onto that topic—"
"What? It's true!"
"Dean, the Angels weren't in any way obliged to help us, you know."
"I know, but—"
"They must have had their reasons for not involving themselves up until this point, and I'm sure those reasons will be disclosed to us very soon. And if you could keep conflict down to a minimum, that'd be great. This day is really important, Dean."
"I know it is—" Dean groans as the two of them round another corner to begin walking down a spiral staircase.
"So don't screw it over." Ellen sighs. "Listen, your marriage will be in the very distant future. And anyway, it's just something of a side note for these meetings. It's optional—just something to improve relations. It might not even happen."
"It's not a side note to me." Dean objects, scowling over to Ellen.
Ellen sighs again.
"I know. I'm sorry. I phrased that badly. But this betrothal is supposed to form an alliance—"
"It was a tactical move." Dean says shortly.
"Don't say it like that, Dean—"
"That's what it is!"
"You're making it out to be a very snide and underhand suggestion of theirs, Dean—"
"—because it is one."
"Don't interrupt, kid." Ellen reprimands. "And you know that's not how Angels do things."
"How would I?" Dean asks, frowning at Ellen. "How would anyone know anything about what Angels do? Nobody in the Earthly Kingdoms has seen them in more than a hundred years! Far more than a hundred years!"
Ellen exhales in exasperation again. Dean finds it a little condescending.
"And don't call me kid." He huffs, glancing down—he can see Ellen smirking at the very obvious and embarrassing pout spreading across his face, and Dean scowls over at her.
"You'll always be a kid to me, Dean." She smiles, looking at him with eyes that are an odd combination between soft and patronising; motherly with a hint of still more condescension—it's the strange mix that makes Dean a little confused about how to react to all of Ellen's words.
"I'll be King one day." Dean frowns. "I'll be your king—"
"I won't let you become anyone's king until you've learnt how to drop this pouty teen act." Ellen laughs as the two of them finally reach the end of another corridor, opening the dark wooden door ahead of them.
Dean snorts a laugh, too, despite himself.
"Another thing, though, Ellen—" Dean starts, looking back at his Nanny—ex-Nanny, Dean reminds himself.—He's an adult, now. "How long will they be staying? The Angels? How long is this gonna last?"
Ellen shrugs.
"I'm afraid I don't know, kiddo. I'm not the one to ask—you should probably check with your father, or one of his advisers. Bobby'll probably know."
"That's Sir Robert to you, Ellen." Dean laughs, as Ellen grins and elbows him playfully.
"Whatever—just do me one favour, Dean, aside from being polite."
"Just one?" Dean asks.
"Just one." Ellen confirms. "Try to have fun with this, okay?" She looks at him, sincerely, for a moment, just outside the door to the main hall. The two of them have just entered the entrance hall and will very soon need to part ways. "There was a time when you would have done anything to see an Angel, and now you get to see a whole choir."
Dean snorts at her joke, despite himself, and Ellen gives something of a triumphant smirk, regardless of her earnest manner.
"You used to tell me every night how much you wanted to meet an Angel." She smiles gently, cupping Dean's cheek with her hand—Dean softens slightly at the incredibly maternal touch. "And now you get your dream. And I can tell you're still excited for it—no, don't argue, Dean; I've known you your whole life—I just know you're secretly excited—I know how long you've been waiting for this moment. So please don't beat yourself down for being enthusiastic about seeing them, especially after all this time. Please let yourself enjoy it. Make the most of this."
Dean sighs and nods, looking down at the ground.
"You'll do that?" Ellen asks him, apparently genuinely concerned and invested in all of this. "For me?"
"Sure." Dean nods again.
"Thank you, sweetie." Ellen beams, pulling Dean in for a tight hug. Dean laughs against her. "Now go on, go—they'll all be waiting for you!"
"Where's Sammy?"
"He's already in there. He ran ahead."
"Right. Typical" Dean rolls his eyes, waving goodbye to Ellen one last time before opening the doors.
"Good luck!" She hoarse whispers at Dean just before he turns around—Dean grins and enters the main hall.
Everyone is already standing or seated in their allocated positions—a silence has fallen as Dean enters the room, and his face instantly reddens at it—Dean's throne, beside his father's, is left awkwardly empty—Dean bites his lip nervously.
He's very late.
"Dean," The King stands up, frowning. His tone sounds horribly unpromising. "Where have you been?"
"I was talking to Ellen—"
"Do you even remember what day this is?!" John hisses, frowning down at his son, frustration filling his tone.
"Of course—it's kind of hard to forget, to be honest, with all of you talking about it all the time—"
John sighs and Dean cuts himself off, biting his lip again. The nobles filling the hall are still watching in silence.
"Just come sit down." John says, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger. Dean walks over to the thrones stiffly; painfully aware of the fact that everyone's eyes are now fixed on him.
All his father's advisors, knights and council members are there; as is Bobby, and several others of John's closest friends and most trusted allies. Dean sits on his throne, beside his father's, and glances over to Sammy, who is sitting next to the Queen's—their mother's—agonisingly absent throne. Something inside of Dean still splinters whenever he is reminded of how very gone she is from his life. Even after all this time.
"How're you feeling, Dean?" Bobby asks, leaning in to Dean from where he is standing, behind them.
Dean shrugs stiffly. John glances over to him and sighs, rolling his eyes.
"Just try to be good today, okay Dean? Please?" The King asks, his voice a quiet mumble uttered in Dean's direction from the corner of his mouth.
"You can talk." Dean bites, holding back his scowl as he stares ahead.
"Both of you." Bobby says firmly, before John can reply fiercely to Dean's unapologetically disrespectful comment. "Both of you need to be on your best behaviour. Today is really important, remember?"
"It wasn't my idea." John mutters, looking down.
"It wasn't mine, either." Dean adds, feeling the scowl still curling at his features. He hears Bobby huff an exhausted sigh behind him. Suddenly, Dean is reminded of his question; the one that Ellen redirected to either the King or Bobby, and he glances up again. "Hey, do either of you know how long this is going to last?" He asks, his voice still barely above a whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"How long are the Angels going to be staying here? With us? In the Kingdom?"
"I don't know." Bobby shrugs, his lips pressing into a thin line as he answers Dean. "Anything up to a month, I suppose. It depends how quickly we manage to come to an agreement."
Dean nods in understanding. "And why are they coming to our kingdom?" He asks.
"Because we're the ones who started the war between the Demons and the Humans. It was the Kingdom of Hera—or, more specifically, your father, who declared war thirteen years ago, after the Demon invasion."
"I did what I had to." John scowls, still staring ahead of himself.
"And I'm not saying you didn't—I'm just explaining." Bobby sighs wearily. "Anyway, since we're the most involved and invested in the war, I suppose they thought they should speak to us first."
"Okay." Dean nods again. That makes sense, he supposes. There is silence for a few moments, before he asks, "Will he be here?"
"Who?" Bobby frowns.
"The Angel you want me to marry? Will he be here?"
It's been nearly a year of planning and they still don't know anything else about Dean's supposed betrothed.
"If it were up to me, you wouldn't be marrying any Angel." John scowls, his jaw clenching somewhat. Dean looks at his father cautiously. "And if I'd had things my way, there wouldn't even be any Angels visiting today."
"Well, you don't have it your way." Bobby says shortly, frowning at John's constant irritability. "And Dean, I don't know. They might be, I guess. Who knows? The Angels will probably want the two of you to meet, so you can figure out if this is something you both want to do—"
"It's not something I want to do." Dean cuts across, bluntly, pressing his lips into a thin line. He fucking hates arranged marriages. He hates them with all of his being.
"And like I've said a thousand times, Dean, it's your—"
"—'My decision'. I know." Dean rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time that day.
"Good. So stop pouting." Bobby bats the top of Dean's head and stands back up.
"I wasn't—"
"Dean," John reprimands, hissing his words through his teeth.
"Sorry." Dean says shortly, staring ahead again. "Where are they, anyway?"
"They're coming." Bobby whispers. "Just wait."
Dean doesn't want to wait. Nervous anticipation is thrumming eagerly through him in spite of himself and despite all his earlier pretences.
Ellen was right. Dean is really fucking excited about this.
"Guys, we're gonna meet some Angels!" Sam beams, leaning across to them to be able to be seen. "Can you believe that?"
Dean grins at his younger brother.
"I dunno, Sammy, it is pretty crazy. Maybe you're dreaming—you should probably pinch yourself to check."
Sam laughs and rolls his eyes at Dean, turning back to face out, into the hall in front of them. Dean is still laughing and beaming down, over at Sammy, when the doors of the main hall swing open—Dean snaps his gaze back to the space ahead of them, to the end of the hall, where the Angels are now being led in—
And the Angels—
Dean's breath catches in his throat.
He's four years old again and his mother is standing over his bed, telling him another story in her lilting, calming voice—Dean's eyes are catching alight, imagining everything that the Angels are, envisioning all of their ways—he is bringing his mother's words to life in his head, but now the Angels are actually in front of him, they're walking into the main hall of Dean's kingdom, and Dean can see them for the first time, after all these years of wishing.
The Angels—
Dean swallows hard.
Holy shit.
—The fucking Angels—
They're breath taking.
...
A/N: Again, if you'd like to beta/make some fanart, please contact me! Hope you enjoyed. Please review!