Disclaimer: Unfortunately, my little fangirl heart does not own Supernatural, Anastasia, or its respective characters. If this is something I have to come to terms with, then I'm afraid you do to!
Summary: Castiel meets Dean and Sam Winchester, two conmen who promise him a ticket to Paris if only he pretends to be the long lost Prince James.
AN: Hi everyone! Sorry again for the time it's taken for me to get this up. It's entirely my fault as SamDestination, my brand new beta, managed to beta this chapter for me extremely quickly. So thank you so, so, so much! I can never thank you enough. The next chapter should be up hopefully quicker than this one because exams are over (hallelujah!) and I have pretty much nothing else to do. Just a pre-warning that this chapter kicked my arse but I think it turned out okay in the end. I would be eternally grateful if you could drop me a review telling me what you enjoyed, what you didn't enjoy, what you had for breakfast, that sort of thing. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! You guys seriously put a great big smile on my face. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Three – Once Upon a December
"Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember;
things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember."
It was correct to assume that Castiel had never, as far as he could remember, travelled outside of St. Petersburg. As far as he could remember, he had never even travelled further than the village next to the orphanage.
So, it was also correct to assume that Castiel didn't know the first thing about travelling to Paris.
But, he did know one thing: his best course of action would be to take the train.
He didn't particularly know how to pay for his ticket (he was an penniless orphan, after all) and he didn't really know the correct etiquette involved in ordering tickets. What if there was some kind of system he needed to follow that he didn't know about? What if there were precise words he needed to use beyond, "one ticket to Paris, please," that he was oblivious to?
But that was all he knew and so that was what he went for.
"One ticket to Paris, please."
The clerk behind the wooden window was leaning on his hand in disinterest. He had dark skin and hair with the beginnings of a beard sweeping across his chin. The scratched name plate that lay haphazardly in front of him stated his name was 'Gordon Walker'. Gordon didn't even look to Castiel as he reached the front of the (unbelievably long and tedious) line.
"Exit visa?" he asked, holding a hand out expectantly.
Castiel pulled up short. Exit visa? What in the name of God's green earth was an 'exit visa'? This was it. This was the train station jargon he was so nervous about. He knew it was too good to be true – he knew that walking into a train station and expecting to get a (free) ticket from Russia to Paris without any fuss would be too much to ask for.
"...I don't have an exit visa," Castiel said, his voice becoming quieter as the clerk looked at him for the first time.
The clerk, Gordon, had a smile tugging at his lips. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. He lived for these moments.
"Well, I'm terribly sorry but I'm afraid I won't be able to give you a ticket."
He didn't sound very sorry at all.
He gave the short laugh of a person who found interest in others' misfortune and pulled the wooden window closed despite the fact that there were several people waiting in the line behind Castiel. As Gordon disappeared from view with a snap when the window slid firmly shut, the crowd behind Castiel groaned in unison before spreading out to find another almost empty queue.
One person remained, stood directly behind Castiel and looking towards the closed window with an eyebrow raised in annoyance.
"How rude."
He was a lean and elderly man with thinning black hair and pale, wrinkled skin. He was covered from head to foot in a long black coat and wouldn't look out of place in a morgue or a funeral home (or a coffin, Castiel thought). When he spoke, his voice was tinged with a broad English accent hidden beneath layers of dry and sarcastic humour. As first impressions go, Castiel immediately felt weak and frail in comparison (which was definitely something given that it seemed a moderately strong wind could easily knock the gaunt figure over).
"I don't think that 'pleasant company' and 'willing to help' were features found in the job description," Castiel replied.
The man turned his gaze from the window to him and Castiel looked to his feet, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the watchful eye of the tall and aging man.
"No, I don't suppose they were." Giving Castiel one last glance, he turned to leave.
He had taken no more than three steps (in which Castiel breathed out deeply in relief) before he stopped and turned abruptly.
"If you want a ticket to Paris, you could always see Dean Winchester."
Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but the man was already talking again before he could even start to ask about this 'Dean Winchester' and why he just so happened to have a spare ticket to Paris.
"He's currently holed up at the old palace, about a ten minutes walk in that direction. But you didn't hear this information from me, understand?"
He was walking through the crowded station platform before Castiel could so much as nod in affirmation.
"It seems we're going to see Dean Winchester, then." Castiel looked towards the dog currently chewing on his shoe (who had dutifully followed Castiel's footsteps ever since poking his head out of the snow) and pulled free with a sharp tug. The dog looked to him in displeasure, but followed along with his tail wagging as Castiel walked towards the exit of the station.
After almost fifteen minutes, three sets of directions and almost falling face-first into a pile of snow after being bumped into by a guy who had little to no manners, Castiel finally found himself outside of the Old Grand Palace. It didn't seem particularly 'old' to Castiel, and it wasn't particularly 'grand' with the boarded-up windows but he could definitely see the charm of the palace buried beneath the snow and overgrown gardens.
The dog stepped cautiously beyond the palace gates with a tentative sniff, following as Castiel's barely clad feet made prints in the fresh white snow. The garden was so big it took almost five minutes to reach the stone steps that led to the (locked) main doorway of the palace itself and a further three minutes to effectively shake the snow from his hair, coat and shoes.
As Castiel looked towards his feet, after shaking free of the flakes, at some point in that time the dog had disappeared. He opened his mouth to yell but pulled up short as he noticed that the dog, who had followed closely behind him for almost the entire day, didn't actually have a name.
"...Dog?" Castiel asked, feeling vaguely ridiculous. "Where are you?"
An echoing bark came from inside the palace and a twitching nose appeared between two wooden boards that had been nailed to an empty doorway. Bending to look through the small gap, Castiel was graced with the image of the dog stood with a smug look and a shaking tail amongst a room filled with dust and spider webs.
Seeming to have no other choice Castiel grasped firmly at the rotten and decaying boards before giving a sharp tug.
With a crash and burst of pain as he hit the concrete blocks, the man and the boards fell gracelessly to the ground.
Inside the palace, two brothers were sitting comfortably in front of a raging fire. One brother, the eldest, was indulging himself with a large cup of coffee and an even larger piece of pie. The other was settled comfortably in a luxurious armchair, engrossed in the novel he held in his hands.
All of a sudden, Dean stopped mid-chew, turning to Sam with his eyes narrowed in contemplation.
"Did you hear that?" he asked. Sam gave a careless shrug, his eyes rapidly reading through the text in his book.
Dean threw a disgusted look towards his brother before rising to his feet to investigate.
Rubbing at the back of his head with one hand and pushing himself to his feet with the other, Castiel stared at the entrance to the palace with suspicion. But the dog seemed to find the newly uncovered room to be danger-free, and so he entered quickly in an attempt to find refuge from the bitter cold.
It seemed that the doorway led into a dining room of some sort and with each step a new cloud of dust erupted from the moth eaten carpet. Three long tables were arranged from one end of the room to the other. They were filled with empty plates, goblets and candle holders, each made from an array of gold and silver and encrusted with jewels and gems. Despite the thick layer of dust, they were still in surprisingly amazing condition.
Castiel vaguely wondered why they had been left to gather dust when it would have been simple to break into the palace and take them, pawn them off for a few kopeks apiece. Was it possible that the Novaks were respected so much that, even after their death, Russian people refused to steal from them solely because they were seen as a memory of a better time?
Holding a plate at eyelevel and wiping a hand along its surface, dust caught at Castiel's fingertips as a shiny exterior was revealed. He could easily see his reflection.
And yet, for a second...
Just for a second, Castiel could have sworn that his reflection had changed. His hair shorter and somewhat tamed, eyes less troubled and filled with laughter, that thin layer of stubble replaced with a smooth, youthful face that was chubby with happiness.
And then it was gone.
Castiel shook his head, placing the plate back onto the table and exiting the room without a backwards glance.
As he entered the second room, he came to abrupt halt. He had never seen such a majestic room in his entire life.
The floor was made of marble and a small set of steps led to a raised dais where three throne-like chairs were placed side by side. At the opposite end of the room, another set of stairs led to a balcony which overlooked the entire room. It was otherwise empty but the windows were filled with colourful glass that depicted a story of dancing couples and elegant clothes.
He couldn't help but walk to the centre of the room in hopes of taking in every little detail.
And then there was the feeling at the back of his mind, the gentle niggling that there was something he was missing.
Castiel looked towards the dog who had come to a stop beside him, glancing up with inquisitive eyes.
"I know it's strange," Castiel uttered gently. "But this place... everything just feels so familiar."
"Hey! What're you doing here?"
Castiel gave a start, his eyes rising rapidly to look towards the platform at the opposite end of the room. Two men, tall and quite muscular, were stood in front of an open door, the glow of a dying fire casting them in golden light. He could sense the distrust from them already and did the only thing he knew how to – he ran. He wasn't particularly looking forward to what those muscles would do to him if they caught him in the midst of trespassing.
Atop the balcony, overlooking the hall, the brothers could see the man's eyes widen as Dean shouted down at him. As he turned to run in the opposite direction, Sam shot his sibling a look of mock admiration.
"Well done, Dean," he said sarcastically. "No, really, you've outdone yourself."
With a quick, "Shut up, Sam," Dean began to sprint down the steps that led to the ground floor in hot pursuit of the trespasser (Dean mentally snorted; he was hardly one to criticise a trespasser, it wasn't as if he and Sam were formally invited to stay at the palace).
Up on the balcony, Sam sighed in exasperation before following his brother at a slow and leisurely pace.
"Hey, wait! Stop! Hold on a minute, would you?" Dean yelled, panting harshly.
Dean finally caught up to the young man as he reached the top of the small set of stairs leading to the raised dais where the Tsar and his family use to sit. Finally sensing that he wouldn't get away no matter how hard he tried, the man stopped and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Dean stumbled to a halt halfway up the set of steps, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees as he took in deep breaths of sweet oxygen. "Now," he started. "How did you get in... here...?"
He trailed off as his gaze locked with the deep blue eyes of their intruder. And in a second, he was lost. Unruly black hair, eyes bluer than a tropical sea, tall (but not overly), well built if a little thin... It was too good to be true; he couldn't be what they were looking for.
But, even as Dean's mind began to doubt itself, (maybe he was hallucinating – he knew he shouldn't have eaten that two day old piece of pie they found a couple of hours ago) he caught sight of the old oil painting hung on the wall behind the stranger.
The painting itself had been done only a month or two before the start of the revolution. At the centre were Balthazar Novak and his wife, Anna, who was sat demurely on a straight backed chair. Around them were their four children; the oldest was Zachariah. He had one hand resting on the shoulder of his mother while the other brushed gently against the arm of his brother Uriel. The youngest child and the Novaks' only daughter, Rachel, was sitting primly on her mother's lap. And then there was the remaining child: James. He was stood in front of his father with a small smile etched onto his face. Both of Balthazar's hands were rested firmly on James' shoulders and the child seemed to be leaning back slightly into his father's embrace.
Even from a distance, Dean could see the resemblance.
Without noticing, Dean had been staring at the stranger for a good minute or so and the man had now taken on a defensive stature, raising his arms in question of just what was so fascinating, exactly?
But Dean was saved from replying as his brother strolled nonchalantly towards them.
"Excuse me, sir. How did -"
"Sammy," Dean interrupted with his hand raised. "Do you see what I see?"
Sam stared intensely at the stranger for several long seconds before slowly nodding his head in agreement. And then he stopped. "No, no I don't."
Dean gripped Sam's elbow tightly with one hand and pointed with the other. "Do you see..." He pointed to the young man. "...What I see?" He then turned to point at the young Prince James, trapped forever in his youthful state inside the oil painting.
Sam's eyes suddenly widened dramatically in recognition. "I see it."
"I'm not being crazy here, right Sam? There's actually a connection?"
"No, Dean, you're right. The hair..." Sam murmured.
"The age," Dean replied.
"The eyes," they both stated together.
Yes, there was definitely something there.
A shrill bark caught their attention and their gazes were pulled downward to rest upon a small, greying dog.
Sam gave a girlish shriek of amazement.
"Who is this wonderful animal?"
"That's my dog," the young man replied. It was the first thing he had said since Sam and Dean had begun their staring competition with him atop the steps. His voice was deep and gruff, as if he made a living by smoking ten cigarettes a day and gargled gravel in between each one. "He doesn't have a name yet."
Sam bent his giant form and picked the dog up with one hand.
"Look at him!" Sam exclaimed with a cheerful smile. He turned the dog around so its whiskered face was in front of Dean's. "He looks just like Uncle Bobby!"
"Don't let Uncle Bobby hear you say that," Dean replied, but his retaliation went unheard as Sam suddenly seemed to have developed the understanding that the world started and ended with the dog in his hands. "You... have fun, Sasquatch." He patted Sam's arm as one might ruffle the hair of a small child.
"Are you Dean Winchester?"
Dean turned to face the young man once more – he had watched the brothers converse without saying a word, but he had apparently reached the end of his patience quota for the moment.
"That depends," Dean replied, walking up the few steps that separated him from the stranger. "...On who's looking for him."
"My name is Castiel," the young man stated. He leant forward slightly and his voice level dropped to almost more than a whisper. "I require travel papers, though I am unable to tell you who told me..."
He trailed off, his eyes following Dean as the Winchester circled him, looking at him from every possible angle.
"May I enquire as to why you are circling me? Your actions are extremely similar to that of a bird of prey."
Dean stopped and gave a small shake of his head. "Sorry, Casteel."
"Castiel."
"Castiel," Dean corrected. "You just look an awful lot like..." Dean gestured vaguely towards the painting, but the confused head tilt that was directed his way made him pause. "Never mind. You were saying something about travel papers?"
Castiel nodded once with determination. "Yes. I would like to go to Paris."
Dean couldn't help the splutter of disbelief that was wrenched from his lips. "You want to go to Paris?"
This was amazing. This was incredible. This was... too good to be true. There had to be a catch somewhere. It was the first thing Dean had learnt while he was fending for himself after the revolution: there was always a catch.
Dean turned to face Sam. He needed support in this, someone to back him up and let him know that this was actually happening and that maybe, just maybe, their luck was finally changing.
But Dean gave it up as a bad effort when all he could see was a small greying canine licking enthusiastically at Sam's face with a few feminine giggles thrown in for good measure.
It looked like Dean was by himself on this one.
"Let me ask you something... Castiel, right? Is there a last name I can throw on the end there?"
Castiel had the grace to look embarrassed and when he spoke his words were aimed towards his own worn shoes. "Well, I'm afraid... This is going to sound slightly bizarre, but I don't know my last name. I was discovered wandering around in the snow when I was only eight years old."
"And before then?" Dean pressed. "Before you were eight years old, what about –"
"Look," Castiel stated firmly. "I know it sounds strange, but I don't remember. I have very few memories of my past and almost none from before my ninth birthday."
"Hmm..." Dean mused under his breath. "That's... perfect."
"But I do have one clue," Castiel continued, oblivious. His hand reached automatically for his necklace. "And that clue is in Paris. So, can you assist me or am I wasting my time?"
"Well," Dean began with an almost sincere smile. "I sure would like to help." He gestured frantically behind him for his brother to hand him the tickets. "In fact, we're going to Paris ourselves, oddly enough."
Sam managed to extract himself from the dog for long enough to pull three train tickets from his jacket pocket and shove them into Dean's hands.
"I have three tickets," Dean said, holding them teasingly in front of Castiel's face. "There's one for me and one for my brother and..." He quickly pulled them away as Castiel made a failed attempt to grab them. "I'm afraid the third is for him." Dean pointed with his other hand to the painting. "Prince James."
Before he could reply, Sam had grabbed hold of Castiel's elbow and had begun to pull him in the opposite direction towards another small set of steps. "Our aim is to reunite the long lost Prince James with his grandfather, the only living member of his family."
"You do kind of resemble him," Dean mused, grabbing hold of Castiel's other side.
Sam gestured towards Castiel's face. "The same blue eyes."
"The Novak eyes," Dean elaborated.
"Balthazar's smile."
"Anna's chin."
"And, oh, look," Sam said with a whimsical sigh, grabbing hold of Castiel's wrist and bringing it close to inspect. "He even has his grandfather's hands!"
"He's the same age, the same physical type..."
"Hold on a second," Castiel announced, slamming his heels into the plush carpet and coming to a sudden halt. "Do you mean to say that you believe I am Prince James?"
"All I'm saying," Dean replied, turning around to face Castiel, "is that I've seen hundreds of people just today alone, and not one of them looks as much like the Grand Duke as you do. I mean, just look at the portrait!"
He threw his arm to gesture to the tall painting held to the wall beside them.
The canvas was obviously old and worn. The Dowager Emperor stood with his arm wrapped securely around a young Prince James who couldn't have been more than six years old.
Castiel turned from one brother to the next, not sparing a glance at the oil painting behind him.
"I had the impression that you were slightly deranged from the moment I met you," he directed at Dean before turning to Sam. "But, now I believe that you are both mad."
He turned on his heel and began to walk away.
Dean's eyes widened slightly with panic.
"Wait!" he called before stopping and clearing his throat. "Wait," he said again. "Why is it so much of a ridiculous idea?" He walked to follow Castiel, gesturing to Sam before grabbing the young man's arm once more. "You don't know what happened to you."
"And no one knows what happened to him," Sam chimed in, voice low and genuine.
"You're looking for your family in Paris."
"And his only family is in Paris."
The trio stopped and Dean turned Castiel to face him, staring directly into his eyes.
"Have you ever thought about the possibility? Just the possibility?"
Castiel couldn't help the scoff of disbelief that was wrenched from his lips.
"The possibility that I could be royalty?"
Dean and Sam both gave definitive nods of confirmation.
"I don't know. It's difficult to imagine that I could be a duke when I spend every night on a damp floor with a tattered blanket and fifteen other children..." He stopped, glancing for the first time to the oil painting of the young prince. "But I suppose it would be a comforting thought to think that I'm not entirely alone."
A small silence settled among them, Castiel's face still turned up to stare wistfully at the painting. Dean, rolling his eyes at the soft look settling on Sam's face, gave a none too discreet glance at his watch before leaving to walk back down the steps.
"And somewhere," Sam was saying gently, "your family could be waiting for you. And this could be your chance, your only chance."
Dean gave an exasperated huff before turning back to grab Sam's arm, pulling him away. His voice broke the serene calm that had settled over them.
"Like I said, we really wish we could help. But the third ticket is for the Grand Duke James. Good luck with your hunt!"
The brothers managed to make it to the long set of stairs before Sam turned to Dean in annoyance.
"Why didn't you tell him about our plan?" Sam asked in a hushed whisper, sharp and accusing.
"All he wants to do is go to Paris," Dean replied. "There's no reason to give away a third of the reward money when we don't have to."
"Well then, we're walking away too soon," Sam replied. "Maybe we should—"
"It's fine, Sammy, trust me. I've got it all under control. Just walk a little slower."
On the landing above them, still staring at the portrait, Castiel was confused. It was hard to stick to his conclusion when the two men gave such a good opposing argument. Could he be the lost Prince? He had as much of a chance as anyone, right?
With one hand fiddling with the necklace against his chest, the other lifted almost against his will to touch the folded bottoms of the Dowager Emperor's suit.
And in that second he had made his decision.
Dean held up three fingers, counting down quietly. "Three... two... one..."
"Dean!"
Sam's face lit up and Dean gave a fist punch of victory before composing himself, wiping his face of emotion, save the occasional twitching of his lips and a twinkle behind his green eyes.
"Dean, wait!"
He turned innocently to face Castiel as he appeared at the top of the staircase.
"Did you call me?"
"If I don't know my true identity then there's no evidence to prove that I'm not a prince, correct?"
Dean walked towards the stairs, holding a hand to his chin in mock contemplation.
"Hmm... Go on."
"And if it is discovered that I'm not Prince James then it's obvious that the Dowager Emperor will know and it will all be an honest mistake on our part."
The trio met at the bottom of the steps and Dean gave a nod of agreement.
"Sounds plausible."
"But if you are the prince," Sam chimed in, eyes shining with excitement. "Then you'll finally know who you are and have your family back!"
"Either way, it gets you to Paris."
Castiel gave a solid nod of agreement. "Right."
Gesturing to the empty hall, Dean gave a small bow. "May I present, ladies and gentlemen; His Royal Highness, the Grand Duke James!"
And Sam's laugh, bright and hopeful, echoed throughout the entire palace.
