Hello, this is my first fanfiction so I'm very excited to share it with you all.
This story is set in London in 1813 (the Regency era in Britain).
Castiel is 22, Dean is 20 and Sam is 16.
References to clothing, locations and other stuff can be found on my profile if you're having trouble visualising. Or you can always google it if you're not sure you know what on earth I'm talking about :)
I want to keep this fic historically accurate as much as possible and to write it in a semi-Regency style, but to also keep it light and humorous.
This will be a very romantic and cliche Destiel fic, so be aware it is a M/M pairing.
I would greatly appreciate any reviews and thank you for choosing to read my story, Enjoy!
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Vast rolling hills of green and gold edged past the brothers unnoticed, who were laughing loudly on the rickety old wagon, engrossed in a game of cards.
"Dean, stop cheating!"
"I'm not! I honestly don't know where that card came from."
The even ricketier old pony pulling the two and their belongings along whinnied into the thick heat of the day, enfeebled after three days travelling. The sun baked down on the capped heads of the brothers, who had not turned up to look at their whereabouts for over an hour, so confident were they in the old mare's instinctive navigation system.
The battered wagon rambled on over the uneven path, shuddering over every pebble and creaking with every turn of the road.
When nightfall came, the boys stayed at their third inn in a small village, three quarters of the way to London.
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The following day brought with it another close heat that had the brothers sweating like sinners in church, the old mare whinnied and the hills rolled by once more at the same plodding pace. The only difference being that each village they passed increased in size and prosperity respectively, a sign of London's wealth filtering out into the local countryside.
By the fourth night they were so close to the city that Sam could see the orange glow of light in the sky when leaning out the window of the room. The sixteen year old could barely control himself as he craned his neck, trying to see the top of St Pauls, Nelson's column or the Tower of London.
"Go to sleep now Sam, you won't be able to see anything from here." Dean grunted, half asleep.
"I will soon," he replied, straining with all his might to catch a glimpse of the idyllic city painted to him by his father on many occasion.
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On the final day, they arrived in the City of London, and what a sight it was to behold.
Mile upon mile of stone houses, ancient pubs and new shining shops, thousands of people all weaving along the pavements like some intricate plait. The noise was indescribable, dogs barking, women shrieking, children laughing, horses neighing, construction workers above hollering, maids singing, cabbies whistling, cattle mooing, policemen blowing whistles – it was a symphony of urban living, one which neither Sam nor Dean had ever heard before in their lives. The sound of John snoring by the fire or the sheep bleating outside were the everyday sounds of home, this would take quite some getting used to.
Sam could barely keep his mouth shut the entire journey, from the outer regions of the city to the clustered and noisy centre streets, the bustle and concentration of energy astounded both the brothers, compared to their rural upbringing, this place was so very different from home.
Nance, the old mare was even more bewildered by the boys, only having been as far as the outskirts of Ealing with John, the movement and noise of the capital was proving too much for her frayed nerves.
Thankfully, Sam's new employer was only now a block away, he fiddling with his dirty, calloused hands, obviously anxious.
"Don't worry Sam, you are going to be fine here, I'm not going to be far away."
"I know, I know that Dean."
"We are very lucky our father was able to get us these jobs, make the best of it."
"I will."
In the late afternoon the wagon jostled down a side road called 'Frankland Way'. Nance continued down the cobbled lane, her hooves clopping on the hard ground, until they came to house 24, a medium sized home compared to others they'd seen, but still sizeable compared to the house back on the farm.
"Remember to watch out for pickpockets."
"I will Dean."
"And remember to stay away from the pubs; you're too young for that"
"Dean, I-"
"And don't forget to-"
"Dean! I'll be fine, I'm only going to be a stable hand, I'm not going to be out on the streets every day, so don't worry yourself. And besides, you're not far away if something happens."
"I suppose you're right Sammy. You're a man now, you can look out for yourself without me fretting over you like an old woman."
Sam smiled, no longer as anxious as before. Dean helped his brother unload his luggage, and after meeting Mrs Gardiner, Sam was shown to his servant lodgings and he took his leave. The Winchester brothers promised to see each other soon, and agreed that letters could fill the gap of absence in the meantime.
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The next occasion Dean stepped off the wagon was at his own employer's house, a far larger and more imperial looking abode, three stories high and constructed of white washed stone. The adjoined servants quarters and stables on the left were connected by a large arch through which a large carriage could fit. Dean steered the wagon over the bumpy cobbles through the arch into a courtyard. To his left were numerous horse boxes, lining the edges of the square. There was also a sizeable covered space with two carriages inside and room for at least two more. To his right, the side of the house opened up into a kitchen with a stable door. He could see maids bustling about inside and he could hear an ignored dog scuffling and whining at the bottom of the door, wanting to be let out.
Dean slowed the mare and stepped off the wagon, he looked around the yard, wondering what to do.
"Ya must be young Dean Winchester," greeted a rough, accented voice from behind him. Dean turned around to meet who he suspected was his father's old friend.
"Yes Sir, are you Mr Singer by any chance?"
The dirty, bearded man gave a short laugh and took off his cap. "I am indeed, and I can safely say ya look considerably like ya father. How is John doin'?"
Mr Singer began helping him unpack his things, and Dean started to detach the reigns off Nance, who was desperate for a rest. "He's doing well thank you, running the farm by himself could change that though."
"I am sure ya father can manage, even if he is gettin' on in age. Where's ya brother?"
"About a mile from here in Whitechapel. He is working at a Mr Gardiner's house as a stable hand."
"That's good work alright, come along I'll show ya 'round."
Mr Singer guided old Nance into a vacant horse box with plenty of hay and left the empty wagon in the yard, taking Dean with him off to the right, towards the house. The kitchens led out into the courtyard, with a few chickens pecking about in the doorway. Carrying his sack full of belongings, Dean stooped to enter the low beamed door, following Mr Singer into the dimly lit room, cluttered with pots and vegetables. The whining dog he had noticed before yapped at his feet, and women looked at him with interest as he made his way into the next room, and into a thin corridor.
"Go up the stairs, all the way to the top, and then go left, that's where the fellas sleep. It's almost six o'clock, so don't ya worry about gettin' any work done today son. Ya go and rest ya head."
Come eight o'clock that evening, Dean could hear the tinkling of wine glasses beneath him and gentle violin music wafting up through the rafters. Blowing out the candle and rolling onto his back on the stiff mattress, Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, attempting sleep. A burst of polite laughter from downstairs jolted him awake for the second time. Huffing in frustration, Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed and moved to the window, opening it as far as it would go and looking out over the dirty chimney tops. No others servants were allowed to retire this early, and after a day of travelling Dean should be compensating with sleep – but the glow of the city and the cool night air were far more inviting. He listened nonchalantly to the echoing of horseshoes on cobbles, distant church bells ringing and drunken singing coming from a pub he'd past on the way here. For a while, he sat by the window and contemplated on his new situation.