My next chapter of Dirty Deeds should be up in a day or two, but here is a Christmas/winter holiday fic I've been working on for a while. I haven't chopped it up into chapters yet, but I'll be posting every now and then until Christmas. It's based on "The Snow Queen" by Hans Christian Andersen, only with tons of Destiel and tons of Slavic fairy tale elements. No Sabriel this time.
Dean and Sam have the same age difference in this story as they have on the show, and at the beginning, Dean is about thirteen and Sam is nine, then we jump five years and Dean is eighteen and Sam is fourteen. They are not related for the sake of the story, but family don't end in blood. Castiel is...well, just read. I hope you enjoy!
}O{
It is said that if any are foolish enough to exit into the first snow of twilight, that he may be chosen to venture to the Wood Beyond the World where he will become the consort of the Frost King.
The Frost King's palace was said to be beyond the River of Sorrows, past the Forest of Tears, and above the Mountain of Loneliness. He is as fierce, harsh and unyielding as the frost itself. His palace is made of ice and those that are taken there freeze to death within days and are made statues in his courtyard.
"Okay, you're really laying it on thick there, Sammy," Dean Winchester said with a laugh. It was still November, a bit too early for a frost, but Dean shivered into his jacket.
"I'm reading the story," Sam Singer, Dean's neighbor and best friend huffed, setting his book aside.
Dean looked out the window wistfully. "It's kind of cool, though, isn't it? Being pulled away from the world into an adventure…"
Sam's wide eyes went into full puppy dog mode. "Don't say that, Dean," the boy begged.
Dean was about to respond when Sam's dad Bobby came into the room. "Hey, Dean, I just got word that your daddy won't be home tonight. Do you want to stay with us for dinner?"
"Yes, sir," Dean nodded, his heart sinking. His father was a woodsman. This was so far the longest he and John Winchester had ever stayed in one place and Dean wasn't looking forward to leaving. He enjoyed living in the little apartment above Bobby's blacksmith where it was always warm thanks to the huge boiler in the basement. He liked Sam, his very first friend, and he liked Bobby too. Sometimes when he was alone, he imagined that Bobby was his father too and he and Sam were brothers, and they lived together in Bobby's neat little cottage with the shelves of books and toasted cheese whenever you wanted it. Then he would feel guilty about wanting that and get mad at himself. Tonight, though, he could pretend and not feel guilty. Tonight he could be Bobby's son and Sam's brother, and it would be okay. Just tonight.
Sam was also excited that Dean would be staying the night. He liked having Dean with him. Even though he had lived in the town all his life, he didn't have a lot of friends, and he thought Dean was his best friend in the whole wide world. He would also dream at night that Dean was his brother, and that they would live together with Bobby for the rest of their lives. When Bobby got too old to run the smithy, Sam and Dean would take over and everyone in town would come to them to get their horses shod and their knives sharpened.
Bobby, for his part, wanted Dean to stay as much as both Sam and Dean wanted it. He had already broached the idea with John that Dean might stay through the winter when John would venture to the south. Bobby had used reason, and when that hadn't worked, threats. He was nearly sure that he had John convinced, but the old Hunter still hadn't agreed to it. Bobby wasn't sure what scared him most: that Dean would find out what John was hunting in the dark woods at night, or that Dean would never know and grow up convinced that John didn't care.
It turned out to be the latter. John never returned from his hunt, and Dean remained with Bobby. For the most part, the boy was happy, but Bobby often caught him staring outside into the night, long after he should have gone to sleep. Dean still held out hope that his father would return home one day, and Bobby couldn't bring himself to say the word "dead" to him, not that he thought Dean would ever listen to it. So when he saw Dean peering into the darkness, watching for his father, Bobby would say nothing.
It was a cold late November evening some five years after John Winchester had left for that last time that Dean found himself staring into the darkness again, unable to sleep. He was of age now, apprenticing under Bobby, and he wished not for the first time that his father could see him as a man. He wondered if John would be proud of him, or disappointed at how he stayed in one place for so long. Dean still warred with feelings of guilt for enjoying the stability that Bobby offered him, for loving a home more than he ever loved following his father all around the world. Still, he believed that wherever his father was (and he wouldn't believe that John was dead), he'd want him to be happy, so Dean tried to be happy. And for the most part, he was. He just missed his dad.
Outside, near the butcher's shop, something moved, and Dean pressed his nose to the glass to try and get a better look. It wasn't his father; the size and shape were all wrong. But it was something. Whether or not it was sinister in nature remained to be seen. Curious, Dean opened the window and was blasted with frosty air. A small flurry of snow swirled in front of the sill, and he stared in wonder. It was too early for snow. It was hardly even cold enough yet. Before he could even process this, a bit of frost smacked him on the cheek like a cold, wet kiss.
Stunned, Dean pressed his fingers against the cold on his warm cheek and stared at the wet, melting ice on his fingertips. Unsure of what was happening, he closed the window and retreated to the little loft room he shared with Sam, suddenly incredibly tired.
Careful to not jostle the boy, who had school the following day, Dean slipped into their bed and turned on his side, hand still pressed against his cheek in wonder.
Outside by the butcher's shop, a small, slim figure stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, a smirk playing about his lips. Poor Dean Winchester was on his way to following in his father's footsteps up until this point, but the being who just cursed him had just set into motion a series of events that he hoped would release both John and Dean from their curses. He was pretty sure it would be a long time before Dean would see things that way, though.
}O{
High on the highest mountain sat a castle that looked like it was made out of glass or ice. It was small as far as castles went, though it was still large compared to a one-room cabin with a loft that suited as a second room for two growing boys. It was a surety, though, that those two boys would not give up their small, snug cabin behind the smithy for a large, rambling castle if it meant giving up their beloved Bobby. Castiel, King Frost, would bet his entire treasury that the two boys who called the blacksmith "Father" had never even thought of giving up his house to seek their fortune in the wide world.
King Frost had no powers of second sight, but he could clearly see the future of the two boys if they were left to their own devices. The one would marry the pretty milkmaid with the golden hair and take over her father's farm, delivering milk every morning as his family increased by the year. The other would romance and woo every unwitting maid and stable boy in town until one day the publican's daughter managed to tie him down for good. Both boys would be happy in their own ways, though Dean would probably get an itch every now and then and tumble a customer looking for slightly more than a new set of horseshoes, and Sam's wife would probably die in childbirth after their sixth child, leaving him bereft and directionless without Dean's strong influence in his life any longer.
But such was the life of humans. What did King Frost care, on his high mountain in his drafty, empty castle? And why was it so difficult to convince his cousin that he was perfectly happy to remain here as he was?
"He wants an adventure, Cassie," Gabriel reasoned. "We're going to give him one."
Castiel glanced back into his mirror, seeing Dean and Sam in the smithy, sweating because of the heat, their linen undershirts clinging to their muscles thanks to the sweat they were putting off. Both boys were laughing and talking as they hammered away at a chandelier some duke had commissioned that hardly tested their skill. If Castiel were to commission something, it would be far more ornate, and both boys would be working so hard at it, they wouldn't have time to talk or laugh. Castiel liked to think that he would visit them now and then while they worked on the piece, glaring at them imperiously while Sam squirmed and Dean tried to charm him. His visits would make them work even harder to please him, especially if he showed Dean just enough interest to make him think he had a chance if he kept trying. Dean would chew on his tongue the way he did when he was concentrating particularly hard and…
"Earth to Cassie," Gabriel deadpanned, snapping his fingers in front of his face.
Castiel shook himself out of his trance and cleared his throat, waving his hand in front of his mirror, turning it back into an ordinary looking glass. "Gabriel, tell me you didn't do this on purpose."
Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck in a perplexed manner. "Jeez, Cass, I thought you'd be happy…"
Castiel stared into the mirror, noting how very blue he looked in the light of his Receiving Chamber, a wasted room since he never received anyone. Still, it housed his mirror and his comfy throne and a huge fireplace that almost made his stone castle cozy.
The castle looked like it was made out of ice though it was really just unblemished blue marble, just as he looked as though he were frozen and blue, from his blue-black hair to the light blue tint of his pale skin. It was all just an illusion, though, a trick of the lighting. The old Frost King had been a bit of a drama queen and had enjoyed theatrics and Castiel just hadn't cared to change anything beyond adding rugs to the cobbled floors and cushions to the hard furniture that made his bones ache for the first week he took over as king.
"I am not happy that Dean Winchester has been put under a curse," Castiel said in a measured voice, trying to keep his irritation down. Gabriel was his cousin and close friend-perhaps one of his closest—but that didn't mean he couldn't still annoy the spit out of Castiel.
"Dean was already under a curse," Gabriel reminded him, waving his hand over the mirror. The glassy surface grew foggy and then the face of a man came up, as though rising from water. John Winchester's face held a blue pallor, just as Castiel and Gabriel's did. John's, however, was actually from cold and not because of poor lighting.
"If you wanted to give him an adventure, you could have just sent him on his way to break the curse," Castiel reasoned.
"Yeah, so he could end up frozen and in a cursed sleep like his dad? No, this is the best way, Castiel. He'll do you a solid, and then your gratitude can be that you lift his family curse."
"What "solid" will he be doing me, exactly?" Castiel asked, his exasperation showing through. "What could this boy possibly give me?"
Gabriel waved the mirror back to where Dean Winchester was standing over a barrel of rainwater, rubbing his naked chest down after a sweaty day at the blacksmith forge. "Gee, Cass, I wonder." Gabriel swirled his way to one of the sofas, his red robes spinning around his ankles as he skipped along. Castiel wondered if he were the only one of his family without a flair for the dramatics.
Castiel scowled at the view of Dean splashing cool water over his body. "Dean isn't the sort to agree to be a king's consort," Castiel said darkly, all too aware that the young man would feel even more stifled and pigeon-holed in the castle than he did. Besides that, Dean didn't seem the sort to want to play second fiddle.
Gabriel shrugged. "Who says you need to marry the guy? Slab, jab, call a cab."
Yeah, that'd be great. A small fling to leave Castiel feeling even lonelier than he already did. "I don't wish to discuss this further, Gabriel. The events have been set in motion, Dean Winchester will come to me for a time, and…we need to make a plan."
"Start with your clothes," Gabriel suggested. "That robe does absolutely nothing for your ass."
Castiel narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips at his cousin, but was ignored. Gabriel conjured up a rack of clothing that the old king used to wear, all ice blue velvet trimmed in silver lamé and white fur that practically dripped with the blood of baby seals and ermines. It was so not Castiel's style.
"I'm not wearing the fur of dead baby seals," Castiel reminded his cousin for what felt like the millionth time. Yes, peevishness made him hyperbolical. Or maybe it was just Gabriel.
"I think this is an arctic hare, actually," Gabriel murmured, fingering the fur.
"Great, poor little rabbit," Castiel muttered, staring balefully at the robe.
"Okay, I can work with this," Gabriel insisted. "Do you at least like the color?"
"I like dark blue. And while we're at it, can we change the lighting in here?"
Gabriel looked up at the spelled chandeliers and their blue shades. "Hey, Dean's a smith, right? Get him to make you some new lampshades."
"Yeah, great idea, Gabe. I wish you'd've come up with it before you cursed him to be my slave!"
Gabriel patted his arm. "I meant that it should be one of his tasks while he's your slave. QED, cuz."
}O{
Bobby was no expert with teenaged boys, but he wasn't quite sure what to do with Dean lately. The usually industrious, busy, flirty, lovable idjit had turned despondent in a way he hadn't ever been, not even when his father disappeared. Quiet and withdrawn, Dean was moving around as though in a haze, half-asleep and depressed. Bobby could find no reason for it. Girls and boys were still lined up practically down the block for a chance to giggle at him, Sam was still hanging off of him like he hung the moon, and life was still going on as it had only a few days previous. Dean was the only change, the only variable.
Sam noticed it too. He loved Dean like a brother, followed him like a shadow, and suddenly Dean wasn't acting normal. He didn't tease Sam about how long his hair was getting, didn't call him a bitch, didn't tease him about Jessica the milkmaid who blushed when she handed Sam and only Sam their bucket of milk for the day. He worked like a machine, not laughing or joking, not threatening Sam with hot pincers or saying he was going to cram the bellows where the sun didn't shine and see if he could make a balloon out of Sam. It was so odd, so strange, so unlike Dean.
Dean hardly slept or ate, and Sam had caught him sleepwalking the last few nights. He told Bobby about it, but the old smith didn't know what to think.
"Maybe he's going through a phase," Bobby suggested. "Maybe someone finally turned him down."
Sam laughed at that, but then remembered that someone had turned him down. Jo, the barkeep's daughter, had told Dean that she had more self-respect than to jump on the same pogo stick that every other idiot in the village had ridden. Sam had been proud of her at the time, and he still was and he didn't hold it against her, but he felt that he had an answer at last, and it made him happy.
Plus, he thought it was really good that someone turn Dean down every now and then. Sam loved Dean more than he loved just about anyone else in the world, but he could be a little too cocky for his own good at times. Sam went to bed that night, secure that Dean was just going through a funk and that he'd get over it.
The next morning, Dean was gone and no trace of him was left. The only clue Sam had to where he might be were tracks of a sled that had not been pulled by a horse or any other animal. Sam had never heard of such a thing, but it was a start.