It was a frigid night in the middle of winter, Impala's worn down shoes leaving deep footprints in the deep snow. The horse whinnied softly in discomfort, her hooves and legs so wet and freezing that Dean wondered how much longer the poor girl would even make it.
He had sold his own wool cloak a few days prior to bring home a stale loaf of bread, which he and Sam could do nothing better than devour, so all he had wrapped around him was his the cloak of his father, not a month dead yet, over his own worn clothes, his tunic and knickers in need of a great mend. But Dean's hollow stomach, howling so loudly that his bones positively rattled, was what prompted him forward toward the building with warm light glowing through the frosted windows.
The warmth was almost overwhelming as Dean stepped inside, bombarded by a cacophony of noise and, more importantly, the smell of something meaty and juicy wafting through the airs and invading every single sensation in his body.
It was a large room, cut in half by a bar where serving men and ladies stood chatting with the patrons. The front half was filled with tables and men, piled high with plates of food and fully consumed drinks. The men laughed and argued drunkenly, slopping their ale down their tunics and beards as the wenches refilled them on hand. On the other side of the bar, a curtain was drawn lazily as if to conceal the happenings behind it, but Dean could see naked bodies writhing around each other on the straw mattresses through the cracks. Dim candles left large shadows splayed about the stone wall, shadows of people inside other people as they fucked. It all reeked of drunken sweat, bodily fluids, and beer, but Dean could still smell the delectable steam of tonight's meal as if it were the only smell in the world.
He found himself at the edge of half occupied table, claw-like hands grappling for the half eaten plate of lamb and bread. Without even realizing what he was doing, Dean shoved the food in his mouth. Even cold, the leg of lamb was perhaps the most delicious thing Dean had ever put on his tongue, and he grunted aloud pitifully, torn between savoring the taste and swallowing the rest of it in one go.
"Hey!"
It took Dean several more seconds of relishing to realize that the gruff call had been directed toward him.
"What do you think you're doing, gudgeon?" grunted a tall man with a full beard as he stomped over to Dean, yanking back his head. "You think you can mooch off me, do ya? Eat my food and expect not to pay, huh?" he gritted in Dean' face, fowl breath assaulting his nose from behind even fouler teeth. His beetle-black eyes were scrunched into tight lines as he tightened his grip on Dean's head, but the Winchester was so starving and bristled by the first taste of food he'd had in days that he couldn't even find it in him to be afraid.
"I could give you some soap, but I don't think that'd help much either," Dean muttered, allowing his lips to quirk into an automatically mocking smile. He really didn't give a fuck at this point if this guy beat him to a pulp; so long as he got his stomach to settle…
"What did you just say, boy?" The man pulled Dean's head back tighter, spinning him around so that Dean was pressed up against the wall, one huge hand in his hair and another on his neck. Fuck, thought Dean, not pressed to break the eye contact he was maintaining with the guy. This really wasn't what he needed right now, he definitely couldn't fight. Not with so little energy left in his rapidly thinning body.
"You need an ear trumpet, too?" Dean managed back, his cocky tone completely betraying how absolutely listless and trapped he felt. But that was how Dean did it, wasn't it? All snark and quips until he was just a splatter on the ground? Ah well, better a splatter than skin and bones. Living wasn't even important anymore.
And so he barely felt the fist crunch against his cheek, the crack of bone on bone reverberating loudly in his ear. It was just another ill of his body, no big deal. He wanted more, more punches, more pain. The image of the room had already begun swimming in the mixture of smells, warmth, and adrenaline that should have been spiked but was suppressed by the emptiness of his stomach. Maybe they would bring his body back to Sam—then the kid would have food for the rest of the winter.
Dean blearily blinked back at the man, who had attracted a rather large and loud crowd of people, and willed his own arm to move, unsurprised and not even worried when his own body mustered no response. Let the man take another swing, it didn't really matter. Dean was so over trying to be strong, so finished with putting on a brave face, this would almost be a relief.
But before the man could do anything but ready his arm, the crowd was pushed apart and the man was pulled away from Dean, and he slumped back against the wall at the lack of pressure holding him up. His vision was still swimming, but he could see that someone new was now hovering over him, someone shorter and less hairy than the previous purveyor, and Dean assumed it was the owner of the joint coming over to kick him out.
"Easy, boys, easy," said the new guy to the angry but abated crowd as put his hands on Dean's shoulders, forcing him to stand up straight. "You could have just assaulted a new customer."
He could feel his eye begin to swell, but Dean tried as best as he could to regain his composure and look properly at the new one's face. He didn't need or want this guy's help, he was perfectly capable of fighting back for himself. Or maybe he wasn't at the moment, but he was perfectly capable of deciding to not fight back for himself. It was stupid and pussy to have some dude come over and save you because you got yourself in a bar spat, especially when you were caught stealing. Dean wasn't some little maiden who needed rescuing.
"Wha's your name, son?" asked the man with his drawling voice as he studied Dean's face carefully, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulders. He was shorter than Dean was, a bit thickset around the middle with bulgy eyes and dark hair. There was a slightly sinister look about his face, something dark in his eyes or his smirk or whatever that gave Dean a bad feeling, but everything was all bad feelings, wasn't it?
"Depends on who's asking," Dean answered quickly, already wary of the creepyish guy. If he wasn't going to get beat up by some sasquatch of a man tonight, he may as well go the opposite and keep his cool. Don't give anyone any satisfaction, he thought back to his father.
But the guy merely smirked deeper, sniffing a laugh before pulling on Dean and bringing him into a walking motion, reaching up to hang an arm around Dean's shoulders as he led them to the bar. He could have stopped him if he wanted to, but Dean was interested to see where the conversation was going, so he dragged his feet heavily alongside the man, keeping his eyes narrowed and scrutinizing the entire time.
"Hungry?" he asked, gesturing for Dean to sit down at an empty stool, seating himself on the one beside it. "You look like you could use a good meal." The dark-haired man waved a serving wench over and then pointed his finger toward the kitchen.
The last time Dean'd had a warm meal he didn't know, but he sure as hell wanted one now. More than anything, really. So whatever this guy's deal was Dean didn't care, especially when the lady returned to the bar, bearing a plate piled high with roasted potatoes, a full leg of lamb, and a loaf of bread and cheese.
It was probably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, and it tasted like Heaven itself had prepared the dish. Dean didn't give a shit that the smarmy man smiled smugly as he watched him devour the plate, animalistic grunts escaping him as he tore meat from bone. The warmth was already returning to his bones and cheeks while his body greedily sucked up every drop of nutrition Dean poured into it, and he certainly could have eaten four more plates, but he stopped halfway through.
Ah, fuck, he had a little brother to take care of, didn't he? A twelve-year-old hungry little brother who was probably shivering alone by the fire right now or trying to rustle up some dinner of his own with the mice they had caught earlier. And though he could certainly be selfish at times, there was no way he could eat this whole thing himself while he left Sammy to feast on rats. So it was with much sadness that Dean pulled out his handkerchief and dropped the second half of the bread, potatoes, and lamb in the center and wrapped it up tight, tucking it back in is cloak to keep warm.
"Lose your appetite?" asked the guy, brows slightly raised. Dean had almost forgotten that he was being watched, but now that his brain had a little food to work with, he felt like he could actually cognitively function for a spell again. He remembered why he had ventured from the house in the first place now, why he had chosen this place of all places to take his starving self, and it hadn't been for food originally.
Right. He had come here for a specific reason.
"Nah, I've got a dragon of a brother to feed, too," Dean said, raising his chin a little to try and muster as much dignity as he could fake. He fell pretty short, though, with his bloody cheek and swollen eye.
"You're a little young to be taking care of your brother, aren't you?" he said intriguingly. "How old are you, son?"
"Sixteen, and I'm not your son," Dean said coldly. And he was wrong. Many sixteen-year-olds had children of their own.
The man seemed amused, however, by Dean's lashing out. "Your father dead?"
"Guess so."
He smiled again and reached forward, cupping Dean's chin in one hand as he stroked his cheek with the other. Dean allowed him to examine his face, balling his hands into fists to keep himself from jerking away because they both knew why Dean was here now. "Beautiful," the man whispered, almost to himself, as he gently turned Dean's from one side to the other, running a warm finger down the jut of his jawline and the curve of his lips. "What's your name?"
Dean felt that this was a good opportunity to pull away from the touch, straightening his back out to betray the lack of confidence he had in himself at the moment. "Robert Plant," he said evenly, pressing his lips together.
"Nice to meet you, Robert. You can call me Crowley," the guy said with a smile that would have been warm on any other person as he thrust his hand out.
Dean reached to meet it but said no more, dropping his eyes as Crowley continued stare at him as if he were a piece of meat with his ugly, bulgy eyes. It was like he was deciding whether Dean was a good purchase or not or something, and if Dean weren't so desperate and pathetic right now, he would have made a snide comment.
"My guess is you didn't come in here to pick a fight with a couple of trolls," Crowley said finally, and Dean's shoulders stiffened before they sagged. No, he hadn't. His empty pockets and emptier stomach had pulled him into the building with a direct purpose; to ensure that Dean find a way to fill them both. He knew what he had to do, they both did. And, judging by the fucking creepy way Crowley was looking at Dean, there would be business.
"I need work," Dean said quietly, trying his very hardest to meet Crowley's gaze with dignity.
"Can't get a job in town?" Crowley asked, brow cocked as his lips remained quirked in his superior smile, and Dean could feel the heat rising in him once again. They both knew that if Dean could find work anywhere else he wouldn't be here, asking for work in a fucking brothel. It was the last thing Dean had ever seen himself going, but times were desperate. And it pissed him the fuck off that Crowley could fucking understand that but insisted in pressing Dean further and further.
"Think I'd be ready to whore myself out if I could?" Dean replied between gritted teeth, hands balling into fists. "No one else will fucking hire a—" Fuck. Dean couldn't say 'heathen,' because then Crowley might realize who he was and send him out the door. "A bastard."
The man looked over Dean once again, those eyes panning all up and down Dean's body once again, and Dean silently thanked the gods that he was wearing John's heavy furs because they gave bulk to his skinny, malnourished body. "A bastard, you say? Daddy ruined you as a prospect, did he?"
Again, Dean made no attempt to answer, simply staring at Crowley without much expression, the mere fact that he was begging to work as a whore sending burning shame throughout his body. Why the hell couldn't Crowley just cut the bullshit and hire him already. The sadistic pleasure he must certainly be deriving from Dean's embarrassment must get him off or something, because that fucking smirk never left his lips as he continued to examine Dean. He decided already that he absolutely despised this man.
"Well, Robert, I've got room for bastards," Crowley said like he had just given Dean the world. Which, if Dean were to be completely honest with himself, he had. "Even cheeky little bastards like you."
And so had begun Dean's life as a whore in the village brothel. Wayward knights, disgruntled husbands, and sometimes even the stray squire all seemed to like Dean because he had girlish lips and thick eyelashes, and they liked to fuck him from behind, spitting disparaging filth into his ears as they rammed in and out of him. It had been tough at the beginning; trying to fight back the tears that brimmed from his eyes at the searing pain, but as with anything, he grew used to it. But he was getting paid, not much, but enough to bring home a loaf of bread and a hunk of scrap meat most days for he and Sam to survive on.
The building was much the same as it had been all those years ago as Impala carried Dean forward. There was no snow or icy frost garnishing the stone, but it struck Dean's vision with an aching familiarity that sent a displeasing chill down his spine. He hated that building, hated everything that went on inside and that he took with him when he emerged. Trading self-worth for a few shillings and a piece of silver.
But this time, Dean rode tall. He wasn't a starving sixteen-year-old any longer, he was a man who had seen and done more things than most of the world could dream to boast. There was no need to feign confidence and assurance; he would command respect.
Or so he hoped.
Dean kept the hood of his cloak pulled low over his face as he walked inside the brothel, paying no attention to the attention his arrival brought from the patrons. The first time he had entered this building, he had been afraid and desperate, unsure of whether he really wanted to live or die. While he was still desperate, Dean knew how to handle himself now and was smart enough to approach his desperation strategically. Or he could pretend. Much the same, really.
His boots thunked against the floor all the way to the bar, which, thankfully, was being tended by an unfamiliar face. The more anonymous Dean could be the better. Although how long could he retain that? Unless the sky opened up and swallowed every shrunken Novak dick from the planet, Dean expected that he would need to hold onto this job for quite some time. Until the people started realizing that the only reason they were alive was because Sam and Dean prevented them from being killed and paid them for it. So yeah, forever.
"What can I getcha, mate?" asked the fat barman in a gravelly voice, tilting his head obviously to try and glimpse Dean's face under his hood.
"I need to talk to Crowley," he replied in a low voice, ducking his head slightly to prevent the barman from seeing his goods.
Although he couldn't properly catch the dude's reaction, Dean assumed he was being gawked at, because there was an alcohol breath-filled silence before the barman sniffed. "And I need new teeth, mate, but that ain't happenin' either," he croaked, and Dean rolled his eyes to himself.
"Go tell him Robert Plant is here. You can bet your dirty ass that Crowley's interested in talking to me, slim," Dean replied quickly, his voice cutting. There was no time for ass hat barmen to delayed the business that he just wanted to end. Or he had no patience for them, anyway.
After several more ugly gawking moments, the guy finally bumbled away to go retrieve Crowley, and Dean pulled his hood down further, only the seat of the barstool next to him visible when a stout body took a place there.
"Back again, are we, Dean? Your horse lose a race?"
That voice, the fucking voice that Dean wanted to erase from existence sent his blood into a quickened rage. It was so snide, so full of condescending reproach and superiority and he almost hated it more than the man it belonged to. Almost.
Lifting his head, Dean stared at the man beside him, his hood leaving a triangular slit of ugly, smarmy bastard in full view. He was much the same as well, thinning black hair and blacker eyes smashed into a pancake face that was twisted into a smirk that never seemed to falter. If anything, he was looking extra smug today, keen on making Dean feel like a piece of desperate trash. And maybe it was working but Dean sure as hell wasn't gonna let the fucker see. He was older now and he didn't have to take his shit. Not all of it, anyway.
"Nah, I just came back to see your pretty face, but I can tell you now, it wasn't worth it," Dean fired back quickly, certain that Crowley could feel the heat of his glare by the way his smirk grew more pronounced, amused that Dean was already so defensive because the bastard got off to that type of shit.
"I see you've still got that charming sense of humor, Dean," Crowley noted. "Though you've grown up a bit, I can see. My my, look at you," he said, sending Dean a vomit-inducing smile. "You've got some muscle on you, boy. I betcha that little cock of yours has come in quite nicely, too…"
"Stow the bullshit, Crowley," Dean barked, glad that his hood was covering the angry flush in his cheeks. If Dean could kill any one single person in the world, it would be Crowley. No, it would be Uriel, but Crowley was only safe because he did help Dean earn money, but if it weren't for that fact, Crowley's head on a pike would be his first priority. "I don't wanna deal with your crap."
The mushy skin on Crowley's forehead wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows at Dean. "You came in here, boy," he reminded Dean shortly. "If you're here asking for my time, you will show me some proper courtesy."
Dean grit his teeth, biting back an insult before it could escape his lips. Damn it, the fucker would always be in an upper hand position over Dean, unless a wraith was after his ass, in which case Dean would just let the beast get him. But the Winchester could never fucking win here, could he? Crowley was his superior, richer and higher than he would ever be and exercising control over Dean's life.
Because there was no escape, apparently. Dean had thought that an apprenticeship with the town blacksmith would be his ticket to freedom, a way to leave this life and become an actual person again. And it had worked for a few years. Life was always rough for everyone, but Dean had done pretty damn good for himself given the circumstances. But as always, shit happened and here he was, in the very position the man across from him swore he would find himself.
Fuck him.
"You need to give me a job," Dean finally managed, too prideful to stomach an apology.
"I don't need to do anything, Winchester," Crowley said, crossing his arms. "I have everything I need."
"I need you to give me a job," Dean grudgingly corrected, hating to ever admit that out loud even though they both knew it. The fucker just liked to hear Dean express weakness, because he smirked at Dean's revision, a positively grimy smile working its way around his face.
"Do you now? You not gettin' your kicks as a blacksmith, eh?" he chuckled once, eyes still studying Dean with that hungry stare.
"Sammy and I got money issues," Dean said curtly, not bothering to skate around anything any longer. "King Never Gets Laid put out some ass tax that I gotta pay."
Crowley looked mildly interested for a moment, but seemed to decide that asking wasn't worth his time. Oh no, not when there were still more insulting things to spit and wisecracks to make. "So you expect me to just let you work for me again, after you so graciously stormed out last time?" he said sardonically, pulling his crossed arms tighter into his barrel chest. "Is that what you expect?"
God fucking dammit, Dean wanted to explode. They both knew that Crowley would be glad to have Dean back, because he had been one of Crowley's top earners. He had even been one of Crowley's "nightly specials," leased out to some of the higher-end clients who booked an upstairs room and got to spend the whole night getting their fills. If he hadn't been here under such shitty circumstances, it may have been an ego-boost, because Dean knew he was a favorite among the customers. Except it wasn't an ego-boost so much as a dreadful personality revelation that he was a good bitch.
So the fact that Crowley was even pulling this shit was ridiculous and an exercise in wastefulness. He was beyond excited that his best bitch was back to play and was having fun milking it. "What do you want from me?" he responded coldly, pulling his hood completely down. "I'm asking for a job that I know you want to give me. Do you expect me to apologize or beg or something? Because that ain't about to happen."
His voice was steady and hard to match his glare, boring into Crowley's face. It was going to go his way this time. He was a man now, a man who could stand up for himself and demand what he was worth. There would be none of Crowley's bullshit or trickery, because Dean was smarter, now. Smarter and stronger and less likely to fool.
And Crowley seemed to accept that…to an extent. The fucking smirk was still in place, but he inclined his head slightly, almost amused at what Dean was bringing to the table. Amused was better than angry, so he supposed he had to take it. "All grown up now, are we, Dean? How cute," he chuckled, and then closed his eyes for a moment. "Alright, you've caught me. I do want you back," he said, opening them once again to survey Dean. "I still think you're a cheeky bastard, but you bring in a lot if business. And," he added, smarmy expression deepening, "you'll probably bring in more now that you've grown into yourself."
The way Crowley said it, like Dean was a tool used to attract customers, made his stomach clench. His absence had made him forget exactly how dehumanizing this business was, how little and worthless one became when they whored themselves out. In Crowley's eyes, Dean wasn't a person so much as an item; a shiny, pretty item for him to display and wave around in order to earn himself a profit. What little cut of the cash Dean earned from the fuckton that he brought in was not even worth the emotional ride on top of everything else, but he was desperate. Fucking desperate as hell to keep up with Uriel's fucktastic way of kicking him in the ass. And, as keen as he was to forget about it, Dean knew he was good at this.
"I get a third of it," Dean said firmly, not responding to Crowley's condescension. "A third of all that I get you is mine."
That seemed to catch the brute's attention, as he raised his brow once again. "That's not for you to deci—"
"Fuck that, I'm not just another whore," Dean spat at him, unable to contain his rage any longer. "I'm not some stupid teenager who needs a few pieces of gold to bring home to his baby brother. I'm not one of them," he seethed, thrusting his arm out to indicate the other whores that were writhing and moaning on the ground behind the curtain. "I don't just let people shove themselves inside me and call it a job. I give them what they want, do what they like and let them fuck me."
The words were spilling out of him, but he didn't care. It was obvious that he had given this some thought, but he didn't care if Crowley knew that right now. Because the fucker needed to realize exactly how good at this Dean was. He wasn't like the other prostitutes. They just laid on their stomachs or backs and took whatever cock was shoved into them like every other fuck and gave it no thought. Let them thrust in and out a few times until they came and then waited for their next client. They didn't feel their partner out, respond to his rhythm and figure out what he liked. No matter who it was, Dean could give anyone a great and memorable fuck simply because he chose to be a partner rather than a hole. He could fit himself around anybody and engage them and keep it hot and get them going so good that they were both moaning at the end. And that took skill.
"I fucking deserve a third."
Crowley stared at him through narrow eyes for several moments before folding his hand on the counter before them. His composure never faltered for even a moment, and it made Dean feel erratic, boisterous as his heart and breath pounded in his ears. Goddamn, here he was trying to prove his maturity and then going off and getting worked up again. In regular Winchester fashion, of course. Why couldn't he have been born without a temper.
"Fine, then. One third," Crowley said evenly, and Dean thought he had heard wrong for a moment. But the man just looked at him seriously and held his gaze, and Dean gave his damnest to return it. "Welcome back, Robert Plant."
"Hand me the torch."
"I've got it, you get the door."
"No way, give me the torch and you get the door."
There was trouble afoot. Sam had been doing his usual sweep of the castle boundaries when he found a pile of gelatinous gunk that had turned out to be the shed carcass of a shapeshifter near the rear courtyard, which was fucking fantastic because there just so happened to be about nine thousand people who could be the shifter inside. To identify the shifter, they had to wave a flame below its face to see whether its eyes flared or not, which meant coming in close contact with people. Which meant knocking out two guards and dressing in their clothes and prowling about the castle trying not to look suspicious while waving fire in everyone's faces.
They had been in the castle for over an hour now with no sign of the bastard, and Dean was growing anxious. The fucking castle just had so many damn people that it could take centuries to test every single person. And so far, the guards and servants they had surveyed had been lowly waifs and halfwits that were only allowed to work in the outer portion of the castle, and Dean figured anyway that, if the shifter was after the Duke, he would be someone of higher importance, like a knight or a personal guard or a Uriel. He was really hoping it was Uriel just so he could see how the fucker would look when Dean killed him.
"Dean, hand me the torch," repeated Sam as they stood outside of a door that led to a private corridor which housed a lot of the family heirlooms. Although Dean doubted it, Sam had insisted they check back here in the case that the shifter was after Novak gold rather than Novak blood. The door was locked pretty good as displayed by the frustration in Sam's voice as he demanded that Dean take over. "You get the lock, I'll keep watch."
"What are you, a cripple?" he grumbled, shoving the torch into Sam's hands as he began working at the lock. It was such a waste of time to be checking here anyway, and it was hell to be standing so still and exposed for such an amount of time.
"Shove it, Dean," snapped Sam as he turned his back to keep watch along the landing. "If you'd have just been with me in the first place then we'd have probably gotten the shifter before he even broken in."
Dean pressed his lips together to keep from snapping back at Sam. His brother had been short and touchy with him for the last two weeks, since he'd resumed his work for Crowley. While Dean got fucked, Sam was left alone for several days of the week to do the village and castle checks, which probably sucked. Not as bad as it sucked to get pounded in the ass by some boil-ridden butcher who got off to hair pulling and drawing blood, but Dean imagined that the work was tough. Also, Sam was going off about how Dean was losing sleep or working too much or not letting him help or yadda yadda whatever. There was no way he would let Sam in on it all, because he should never have to know what it felt like to be used like that.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't here, I was a little busy making sure that we don't get sent to debtor's prison," he said between grit teeth.
He could practically feel the expression on Sam's face as his brother whipped around. "Maybe if you'd let me do something then we—"
"Shut up, I got the door," he interrupted, glad for the distraction so they didn't have to talk about this again. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, indicating that it had been closed for some time and confirming Dean's supposition that the shifter wasn't after a few goblets and ugly oil paintings of the family. "Hear that? No shifter's been here. Now—"
"What do you think you two are doing?" came an accusatory voice from behind them.
Fuck. He quickly snapped his body around to see a tall, dark-haired guard with a drawn sword facing them. God damn, why the fuck hadn't Sam just kept his shit and played lookout like he was supposed to?
"We thought we heard an intruder in the corridor, sir," Sam said quickly, lowering his torch and standing beside Dean. "We were going to make sure that no one was stealing anything."
The guy kept his surreptitious sneer balanced on them both. He really looked like he definitely believed Sam's shaky lie, as displayed by the way he positioned his sword an inch away from Dean's face. His heart pounded in his ears when he heard the echo of footsteps coming down the hallway to join their little party, especially when the last voice he ever wanted to hear boomed through the cavernous stone.
"I assure you, your majesty, I have taken the entire guard and given them the explicit instruct—" Uriel stopped in the middle of his sentence when he rounded the corner to see Sam and Dean pinned against the wall. Dean could see his face process the sight and then sink into his snaky grimace, as if his microdick had suddenly grown to normal size or something. The guard who was holding them against the wall seemed pleased with the fortuitous turn of events, and held his head higher as he pressed his sword closer to Dean.
"Motherfuck," Dean breathed between grit teeth.
Because the one accompanying Uriel was none other than the Duke Castiel himself, dressed in the blue and black that seemed to have taken over the town. The expression on his face could be classified as a mixture between startled, curious, and offended as he examined Sam and Dean being held at sword point by another guard.
Fuck. This was going to be a tough one to get out of, especially because he knew Uriel would cut them no breaks. He had probably already littered the Prince with false tales of their heresy and anti-Catholic practices, painting them to be some sort of bible-burning pagan worshippers who snacked on children and had ravenous sex all night long. Well, Dean did have ravenous sex all night long, but that was completely unrelated. The fact of the matter was they were in some pretty deep shit.
"My, my, my," drawled Uriel, coming up to stand beside the sneering guard to look down his nose at Sam and Dean. "If it isn't my two favorite hell bound heathens. What brings the displeasure of your demonic presence today?"
"They were breaking into the corridor," answered the guard in his gritty voice, glaring at the two brothers. "Said they thought they heard 'an intruder.'''
"Uriel, why don't you and your hemorrhoids go find someone else to bother," Dean spat, knowing full well that nothing he said would get them out of here. "Sam and I are busy trying to save your asses, thank you."
That only seemed to amuse Uriel, as he drew his sword to hold under Sam's nose as well. "Very clever, Dean. But I would watch what I was saying, if I were you. The matter of execution is still undecided."
"What is going on?"
All eyes turned on the Prince, who everyone had seemed to momentarily forget about. He was standing beside Uriel, his gaze penchant gaze traveling back and forth between the boys and their captors, as if he didn't know who to trust. From this close of range, Dean could see that his stony face was even more serious than he had previously thought, if that was even possible.
"I beg your pardon, your majesty," Uriel said quickly, bidding the Prince a small bow without lowering his sword. "But these two criminals are not guardsmen. They are the two sacrilegious cretins I warned you about, the ones who live in the squalor and dung outside of town," he told him, shooting Sam and Dean a hateful glance. "They have come to spread their pagan curses about the castle."
Dean was over the fence. Uriel fucking knew what Sam and Dean were really here to do—he had fucking seen them take out monsters with his own two eyes. Hell, if it weren't for them, he would probably be dead forty times over and getting fucked in the ass by Satan. But he continued to play this stupid card, like the Winchesters were no better than street urchins and thieves sneaking into the castle to sell Novak crap on the black market. "You know that's not—"
"Dean,' cut Sam warningly, not moving his head. He knew his brother would only get them in more trouble if he continued. "Your majesty, if you would allow my brother and I moments to explain ourselves, I'm sure that you wou—"
"Enough!" interrupted Uriel, stabbing his blade dangerously close to Sam's eye, and Dean was ready to pounce. If the bastard fucking touched his brother, it would certainly be the last thing he did, even if it meant life in the dungeons. "Your highness, we will gladly escort these two down to the dungeons while we find a proper punishment for the—"
But as Uriel was talking, Sam's torch flicked upwards as he jerked back in response to Uriel's sword. The tip of the flames licked near Dean's face, illuminating the eyes of the guard who held him captive. In the light, they flashed, flashed a white and silver color that washed over the pupils. An inhuman color.
"Sam, the shifter!" Dean yelled, not hesitating to lift his leg and kick the bastard in the chest, sending him straight to his back as his sword flew away. The man lunged forward, whipping the silver knife from his breast pocket, and sent the blade through the shifter's chest before the creature could even blink.
He was dead, his silvery eyes staring lifelessly from the body of the guardsman he was impersonating as blood seeped from the blue tunic of his uniform. Fricking shapeshifter, he had been there the entire time, keen on getting Sam and Dean caught and out of the way so he could go get himself some royal blood. Smart fucker, he had to admit.
But then there were two hands at his shoulders, pulling him away from the dead shifter and pushing him to the ground. Uriel was looming over him with his sword at Dean's throat, holding him to the floor with a boot on his chest and a vilified expression contorting his ugly face.
"You have just murdered one of my men!" he roared, pressing down on Dean's chest harder. "You think you can just kill members of the Royal Guard and get away with it, boy? Do you!?"
Dean gagged, breath compressed by Uriel's heavy boot. His knife was still stuck on the shifter's chest, so he was weaponless, unable to even talk with Uriel on his body. But didn't he see? Didn't he see that the shifter's eyes were inhuman, that he was lying there with silver fucking irises?
"Uriel, get off!" Sam yelled, pushing the dark man to the side. He quickly grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him up, brandishing his sword at Uriel. "We just saved you all!
The man looked floored, abject rage falling across his face as he stared between the boys, unsure of who to first execute. "Saved us?" he seethed. "By killing a guardsman? Boy, you have earned yourself a pike for your own head!"
Dean's cheeks were positively scarlet. "He was a shapeshifter!" he yelled, able to hear the thunder in his own voice echo off the walls. "Look at him, you motherfucking piece of trash, look at his eyes!"
Though he may have thought it initially impossible, Uriel's outrage worsened, and he stepped up to Sam's sword, clinking his own steel against it in a harsh warning. "There you go again with your pagan devil nonsense! This is a holy castle, and neither the Prince nor I wil stand for your—"
"Silence!" ordered the Prince suddenly. His hard voice had not risen much in volume, but the intensity it carried was cutting enough for even Dean to bite back the slew of hatefulness he had ready to spit at Uriel. He stood between the two parties, using his sword to break the connection between Sam and Uriel's blades. Dean was frozen, his entire body swallowed in an icy hot bath of adrenaline and fear.
The Duke looked back and forth between the Winchesters and Uriel again, holding his head up in a dignified sort of way that spoke volumes about his family. He had a less pompous and asshole air about him than Zachariah had, as if he were not as keen on exercising his control as his brother. The power rested in the carefully stony expression he wore on his face, one hundred percent professional.
"What did you call my guardsman, Mr. Winchester?" the Duke asked Dean in a cold voice, turning his startlingly blue eyes fully on the man. Dean found himself unnerved by the severity of the gaze, but locked his own eyes on the Prince's anyway.
"He's a shapeshifter, your royal majesty," he said shortly, narrowing his eyes as almost a challenge to the Duke. This was their coming out, he supposed. If Prince Castiel had half of a brain, he would listen to the Winchesters and realize that they weren't the bad guys here. Zachariah had kept them around, and Zach was the stuffiest idiot Dean had ever met, so he had hopes for Castiel. But if he deemed them "heathens," or whatever the fuck had been drilled into his head, they were done. They were all done. The Wichesters would be killed, Castiel would be killed, and when they ran out of brothers to put on the throne, it would go to Uriel, and then the whole of Gildwich would starve to death.
Castiel didn't indicate whether he believed them or not by any virtue of expression or even posture change. He simply kept his eyes drilled into Dean's. "Why are you so sure?"
Dean met his gaze once again. "His eyes. Look at them."
Another few seconds of the stare down passed before Castiel finally broke away and turned toward the dead shifter. His eyes were half closed, but there was a clear silvery sheen covering the exposed portion of the irises. The Prince examined him for several moments, his expression still unreadable, and Dean watched him carefully, if only to keep from having to look at Uriel.
"There are a lot of things out there, your Highness," said Sam from beside Dean. He had the voice on that indicated that he was trying to build bridges, which was always scary. He wasn't as good of a diplomat as he thought. "A lot of things like shapeshifters who are constantly at war with each other to kill you. My brother and I hunt these things before they can."
Castiel straightened up then, turning his attention toward Sam. Another moment of enigmatic staring passed between them, and Dean thought he might yell at the Prince, demanding to know whether or not he found them to be liars or what. "Why?"
"Because they have some contest or prophecy or incentive to kill royal blood, and almost all murders of your fami—"
"No," interrupted the Prince, shaking his head once. "Why do you stop them?"
At that, Sam opened his mouth, but closed it after a few wordless seconds passed. He looked to Dean, who was staring at the Prince in confusion. Why did he care why Sam and Dean stopped them? He was waking up each morning in his massive featherbed to scores and scores of servants and wealth. What did it matter to a Novak prince why two rag tag, pagan worshipping brothers were out there risking their necks to make sure he did? Not one Prince had ever thanked a Winchester, and Dean refused to believe that Castiel would be an exception, the only one to ever consider them as more than peasants.
"Because we don't like these sonofabitches thinking they can get the better of us," answered Dean. "They get mighty cocky, and if they got you, they'd start coming after others," he said, crossing his arms and pursing his lips.
"No, they're pagans, my lord," Uriel insisted as Castiel examined Dean again. "They're hut is full of demonic artifacts and sigils. Why, even their father was dragged to Hell by the Devil's hounds."
Dean kept his glare forward. "Just look at his eyes," he repeated, balling his hands into fists.
If the Prince was at a loss of who to believe, he certainly did not show it, because he made no change at all to the collectedly hard expression on his face as he looked back at the shifter. Dean didn't know whether he should expect to be hauled down to the dungeons or given a spot on the Guard.
Finally, Castiel turned back to Uriel, his face set. "Escort the brothers outside and give them back their knife," he told him with the same tone he had used to initially silence them. "And clean up the body."
Dean thought he had heard wrong initially, but when Uriel's face became aghast, he felt his heart triumph with relief. "But, my lord, they worship the De—"
"They saved my life, Uriel," cut the Prince harshly, sheathing his sword. "I am not having two men hanged after such a deed. Now do as you're told."
Without another glance at Sam or Dean, the Prince turned on his heel and strolled away, his blue and black cloak billowing behind him, leaving a smug Sam and Dean alone with a crestfallen Uriel and dead shapeshifter.
Fuck you, Uriel.
