The Devil's Epitaph

by TheGirlWhoBlockedHerOwnShot

Dean has spent his whole life hearing about Angels. Castiel has spent his whole life dreaming of Humans. Surely an engagement would be a dream come true? Betrothed, and both princes, the two will come to name each other friend, lover, soulmate and enemy; battling odds, armies and the devil himself - Destiel Medieval Fantasy AU

4. Chapter 4 - Understanding

A/N:

weedom - yeah, their first time meeting went pretty appallingly to be honest, (to be fair, on the show, Dean tried to kill Cas when they first met, so it's not too far fetched) but of course they come to like each other far better ;) Much more flushing, awkward Dean is to follow, also - I hope you enjoy this chapter, thank you so much for commenting, it really means so much!

Chapter 4—Understanding

"Grace is what matters. In anything. Especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. About people, that's what matters… it keeps you from destroying things too foolishly; it sort of keeps you alive and keeps you open for more understanding."

- Jeff Buckley

"Castiel!" Anna greets as Castiel enters his chambers. She is seated on the end of his bed, which is covered with bright orange sheets that seem almost on fire, the colour of the sun. Anna looks as though she has just been deep in conversation with Michael, who is stood opposite her, arms folded. Both of them are wearing expressions that Castiel recognises, and he knows instantly that he won't be able to ask what it is they were speaking of just before he arrived in the room. "We've been waiting for you!" She exclaims, standing up. "How were your introductions with the young Prince?"

Castiel scowls at nothing in particular and sits down onto his bed, pinching the fabric of the sheets, rough with thick threads of gold, between his fingertips in frustration.

He is still burning from the argument that he and Dean had; he feels unrest simmering hotly inside of him—Michael can sense it already, Castiel can tell simply by the way in which he is standing—and any second now he is going to instruct Castiel to control himself, to remind him of his heritage and their beliefs on self-restraint—but all Castiel's blood is magma inside of him and he hates Dean for all of his unkind words in the forest.

"…They didn't go well, then?" His sister asks cautiously, moving softly over to him and sitting slowly back down onto the bed, sinking slightly into the mattress. Castiel looks away. He dislikes his sister's wary, gentle tones, the way that she is holding herself next to him, as though she feels he may explode at any moment. He almost glares at the tender, pale hand that she places carefully on his shoulder.

"I said that he'd hate me." Castiel mumbles, still staring at the ground. Anna sighs next to him, and in the corner of his eye, Castiel can make out Michael's composure shift somewhat. Michael takes a step towards Castiel and his sister, standing in sunlight beaming in from an open window.

"He doesn't hate you, I'm sure of it—"

"He does." Castiel replies, looking up at Anna. Her deep, ruby wings twitch slightly as she frowns thoughtfully at him. "He does." Castiel repeats. And then the anger simmering below the surface of his mind begins to bubble and boil again, and Castiel clenches his fists tightly around the sheets he hadn't realised he's been holding. "And if he doesn't, then I hate him."

Michael frowns from where he stands above them; but it is restrained, like he wants to comment, but is reminding himself not to.

"And the engagement—?" Michael asks, after a lengthy, awkward pause. Castiel looks up at his oldest brother. He can feel himself peering earnestly at Michael, a thoughtful frown twitching at his face. A similarly sombre expression settles on Michael's features, and Anna begins to mirror it.

"I don't want to." Castiel mumbles, his voice very small.

"Okay." Michael nods, and that's all he says. His tone is flat and emotionless, his expression blank; Castiel wishes that his brother would snap at him and tell him to stop being so selfish, to go through with the engagement for the benefit of their kind; but he does no such thing. His silence, in a way, is worse than a thousand angry reproaches. "I understand." Michael nods—except no, he doesn't—and Castiel loathes the thought that his brother is settling with feeling disappointment in Castiel, rather than anything else—even rather than anger. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

"I don't want to." Castiel repeats. He looks down. He doesn't want to have to look at his siblings' dissatisfaction with him at this time. He knows that Anna must be wearing the same kind of expression as Michael is, and the thought is more than he can bear.

"Anael," Michael says, and Castiel winces at his flat tone; at his using Anna's formal name. Anna snaps her head up to her brother, as though she is being called to attention, and Michael's gaze is settled on her completely now, never once does he flit his eyes back over to Castiel. "I think it would be best if we continued discussing those earlier matters in my quarters." He pauses. "Would that be a problem?"

"No, Michael." Anna bows her head slightly. Castiel bites at his lip, averting his gaze. "I'll be there in just a moment."

Michael nods curtly and exits, and Castiel's body relaxes—or crumples—and he stares down at the floor, feeling remarkably broken.

"Castiel—"

"I didn't want to let him down…"

"And you haven't." Anna replies firmly, her voice as lowered as his.

Castiel looks up at his sister. He is craving her reassurance, her comforting smiles, but he wonders if even these would be enough to settle the ugly storm swirling in his gut.

"We gave you a choice, remember?" Anna asks; she's raising her eyebrows at Castiel and peering firmly at him, and Castiel wants to squirm away from her gaze, but he doesn't.

"I remember." He nods. Because when Anna asks questions like this, rhetorical or not, she prefers them to be answered.

"And the choice wasn't empty, much as you may think it was. We gave it to you for a reason. We didn't want you to be forced into this—Michael didn't want you to be forced into this. So he's not disappointed. Nobody will be. Your engagement wasn't the purpose of the visit, and, if things go well today, relations with the Humans will be ironed out and in good condition for all the council meetings to come, anyway. So don't worry, little brother." She ruffles his hair softly and smiles at him, and Castiel accepts the offer of the hug that she gives him, sighing against her shoulder. But he doesn't miss the worried look in his sister's eye as she exits the room—cannot ignore the uneasy way she bites at her lip when she glances back at him then back at the hallway in front of her, on her way out.

And Castiel knows he has caused a disappointment, that he is a disappointment.

Gabriel enters Castiel's chambers a while after this. Castiel has spent the time staring at the floor, fumbling with his own hands nervously and he finds himself unable to pinpoint the emotion squirming uncomfortably in his gut.

"So, I heard things with Hera's young prince didn't go all that well, today." Gabriel's voice makes Castiel start slightly, and he looks up to his brother, heart sinking with still more exhaustion at the day's affairs.

"Yes." Castiel nods stiffly. "You could say that."

Gabriel's facial expression is closest to that of a grimace, Castiel thinks, as his older brother seats himself on a chair in the corner of the room, facing Castiel's bed. The red leather covering the seat creaks slightly as he sits down.

"You spoke to Michael, then?"

"That I did." Gabriel confirms. He absently pulls a feather out of his wings and drops it nonchalantly to the floor. Castiel winces slightly at the motion. "And Anna."

"I'm sorry," Castiel starts, but Gabriel's heaving, needlessly exaggerated sigh interrupts him.

"Don't be. Really." His older brother shrugs. He glances down at the feather he discarded on the floor on a few moments previously; regarding it thoughtfully, before sighing again and picking it up. "It's probably best not to litter, eh?" Gabriel asks, cocking a grin in Castiel's direction and raising his eyebrows slightly at the younger Angel. Castiel feigns a smile in response.

"Yes, I suppose that would be for the best."

Gabriel nods, fiddling with the feather for a few moments, before flicking his eyes back up at Castiel.

"So, what happened?" He asks, spinning the feather between his thumb and forefinger. Castiel doesn't want to answer, but Gabriel's silence is oddly pressing; and Castiel watches as his older brother shifts in his chair, settling further into it, the wood and leather squeaking once more beneath him. Castiel thinks, instead of thinking of a reply to his brother, that it's probably a fairly old item of furniture. Gabriel continues to gaze steadily at Castiel, curling his fingers around the arms of the chair, his eyebrows still raised in casual curiosity.

"We got in a fight." Castiel shrugs. Because it's true. And because it's simpler—and far less frustrating—to say this; rather than labouring over the full story. Gabriel doesn't seem particularly satisfied by his answer, and leans forward fractionally in his chair—but it is enough to prompt Castiel to say more. "And I stormed off. And I don't want to marry him. He's—" Castiel sighs, struggling for his words. "Awful." He finishes, spitting these last syllables out.

"He's a Human." Gabriel scoffs. "And maybe it's because the two of you are too similar. You always did have a shitty temper."

Castiel decides to ignore his older brother.

"And wait," Gabriel continues, leaning back again and resting his foot on his other knee. "Is this a fight fight, or one of your shouting matches?"

"It was a shouting match." Castiel admits sheepishly.

"So you didn't even throw any punches?" Gabriel grins.

"No." Castiel frowns at his older brother in moderate confusion, and Gabriel snorts with laughter.

"Well, I guess that's something of a good thing, at least, although far less entertaining."

"What do you mean?"

"Think of the songs that could have been written about the two princes who were to be betrothed to each other and instead became mortal enemies! Think of the poems about the Sarim Castiel breaking the Human prince Dean's nose!" Gabriel exclaims, almost with delight. "Finally, that would be a poem I'd be happy to read."

"I meant, when you say it's a good thing I didn't punch him, what do you mean?" Castiel groans.

"Come on, Castiel, are you really that dull? And for once, I don't mean boring, I mean dim. We'd be on really shitty terms with the Humans if one of our own beat up their favourite prince."

Castiel rolls his eyes.

"You don't think you'd win in a fight with him, Cassie?" Gabriel laughs, his head tipping back slightly.

"I don't think I'd want to fight." Castiel replies, deadpanning more than a little.

"And that's probably why he'd win, you know." Gabriel smirks, but Castiel looks away. "If you wouldn't fight, how could you possibly win?"

Castiel is relieved to see Anna entering his quarters cautiously, peering round the door before she actually does so.

"Are you feeling alright, Castiel?" Anna asks, giving a small, worried frown in Castiel's direction as she speaks.

"Yes." Castiel nods. He tries to refrain from sighing as much as possible.

"Is Gabriel behaving himself?" Anna enquires, amusement lacing both her features and her tone, though she makes a rather pointed look in Gabriel's direction—one that Castiel doesn't miss.

"What do you mean, behaving—?!" Gabriel starts in protest, but Castiel thinks it prudent to cut him off.

"Gabriel is being fine." He shrugs. He glances over to his brother, who grins and winks conspiratorially over to him, although Castiel knows that this is only designed to exasperate their sister.

"Good." Anna smiles, choosing to ignore Gabriel—a wise decision, Castiel feels.

"Is Michael angry with me?" Castiel asks—and a bitter taste forms in his mouth with the words; he loathes how childish and anxious they sound, how shyly they form on his tongue.

"No, little one." Anna hushes, brushing her knuckles against the fold of Castiel's wing and sitting so close next to him that there is almost no space between them. Castiel appreciates the contact. "He is not angry."

"But how could he not be?" Castiel asks. He swallows thinly, worrying at his lip again. Anna tilts her head to the side and swats his hands away from each other when they threaten to begin fumbling desperately with the sheets of his bed once more. Castiel glances down and notices that in his earlier unease he tore some of the material, and sighs resignedly.

"He's not." Anna repeats. "Michael's—well, he's got a great deal to worry about, just now,"

"—And I've just added to his worries."

"That's not what she meant." Gabriel cuts across, frowning, and pushing himself a little further forward on his elbows from where he sits.

"Then what did you mean?" Castiel asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he looks up at Anna.

"I meant," Anna starts, rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger, "that he's been a little distracted with—things," Anna bites her lip as she says this part, "and if you felt as though he was being cold, it would've largely been down to those other things. Not you. It really wasn't because of you. He's upset—but only because affairs are going to be a little more difficult now, honestly. But more than anything else, he wants you to be happy, so always remember that, Castiel—we all do—and if engagement to Hera's Prince isn't what you want, then Michael—and the rest of us—will be fine with it. Okay?"

"Okay." Castiel nods, but it feels a little weak.

"Things are going to be pretty toasty at the feast this evening, I can tell." Gabriel grins, rubbing his hands together gleefully. Anna's eyes immediately dart up to Gabriel's face, and she glares daggers at him—if Castiel didn't know his brother any better, he would say that Gabriel seemed completely unperturbed by the look Anna was casting in his direction; but as it is, Castiel notices the uncomfortable twitch of Gabriel's wings and awkward shift in his posture as he grins back at Anna, attempting a look of relative innocence.

"Gabriel," Anna starts, voice steady and warning, but Castiel has only just processed Gabriel's comment and turns to his sister anxiously.

"Wait, feast?" He asks, worry and confusion twisting his face into even more of a frown.

"Yes, feast." Anna confirms. It does nothing to ease the scowl lacing Castiel's features.

"Feast?" He repeats, and he hears Gabriel snort a laugh opposite him, and turns to glare at his brother, instead.

"Well, that's what she said, little brother." Gabriel grins. Castiel feels his jaw clenching in frustration.

"Yes, but why wasn't I told about it?"

Gabriel shrugs, looking unconcerned. It flares still more frustration inside of Castiel.

"I don't know." He waves his hand distractedly. "Someone forgot to tell you, I guess."

"You were supposed to tell him." Anna sighs at Gabriel, who grins and sits back on his chair again.

"Well then, I guess I was the one who forgot to tell you." He chuckles.

"It would certainly seem that way, yes." Castiel attempts not to bite his words out to his older brother; but it's proving very difficult—he feels tired and out of place, away from home and void of all warmth and familiarity—Michael is angry or disappointed or both with him, he feels alien in Hera and drained from the day's exertions and still extraordinarily frustrated because of he and Dean's argument earlier. Castiel doesn't want to be patient, even with Gabriel.

"Well, there's a feast tonight, Castiel." Gabriel mock-informs his younger brother, who has to press his lips firmly together and has to look away. "Oh, come on, don't be like that!" Gabriel exclaims, smirking somewhat. "Better late than never, wouldn't you agree?"

"I suppose." Castiel sighs, nodding absently. "What's the feast for?"

"It must be to celebrate our arrival." Anna shrugs.

"And who will be going?" Castiel asks, apprehensively—he can already tell from Anna's expression that he isn't going to like her answer.

"Your Prince Dean will definitely be there, if that's what you're asking, Cassie." Gabriel grins, hooking his foot over his other knee confidently once again.

"Shut up," Castiel growls, but his brother only smirks further, raising his hands in a sign of surrender that Castiel knows is only designed to infuriate.

"Why? That's what you were asking, wasn't it?"

"I said, shut up, Gabriel." Castiel glowers in his older brother's direction. "And he's not my Prince Dean, thank you—if you remember correctly; I said that I don't want to become betrothed to him, any more—"

"Yes, Castiel, we remember." Anna nods, and she speaks in a maddeningly patronising tone. "Gabriel is only trying to vex you. Don't let him."

Gabriel grins at Castiel and winks once again.

"What time is the feast going to be?" Castiel asks, looking back up to his sister. Anna shrugs and glances outside the window.

"Some time in the evening. I'll check with Michael. But you'd best get ready, Castiel—and yes, the young Human Prince will be there, I'm sorry. Just—try to repair things with him, maybe?"

Castiel glowers at his sister and stirs, about to make a response, but Anna interrupts him before he can.

"I'm not asking you to reconsider your decision. I understand—I really do," Anna chides, and Castiel has to hold back a scoff in her direction. She really doesn't understand, and how could she ever? "But don't you think it'd be for the best if you were at least on talking terms with the future King of Hera?" She asks, raising her eyebrows; it's another one of her rhetorical questions, the ones that Castiel knows he is supposed to answer to prove his sister right, and so he does.

"Yes." He nods.

"It'd smooth things out between the Humans and us." Anna speaks softly. "There's already enough tensions and distrust; I'm sure you'll agree."

Castiel nods shortly and looks down.

"It's okay, little brother." Anna brushes her fingers through some of Castiel's feathers, and Castiel finds himself at least slightly comforted by the touch. "You're feeling better?" She asks softly.

"I suppose." Castiel nods shortly, sighing.

"Good." Anna smiles. She pats his wing one last time before standing up, tucking a loose strand of her brilliant red hair behind her ear. "Now, Gabriel and I are going to leave you in peace." She speaks over Gabriel's voice when he tries to protest, at this. "And we'll see you at dinner. You should prepare for it, now, Castiel—and I'll come by in a short while to tell you when exactly it's going to be. I'll ask Michael for you." She smiles, and Castiel nods gratefully. "It'll be in the Main Hall—that is, the hall we were in earlier today." Anna gives Gabriel a look that makes him stand up from where he is seated, too. "I'll see you this evening." She smiles once more and ruffles his hair before leaving.

"Come by my room if you get bored, Castiel." Gabriel smiles, genuinely, and Castiel returns the look, appreciating the warmth and comfort Gabriel is at least providing him. "I'm just down the corridor. We can just talk, if you want."

Castiel nods thankfully at his brother, who grins and claps Castiel on his shoulder before leaving after Anna. Castiel glances back at the leather seat of the chair his brother had been sitting on. Gabriel has left the coppery coloured feather on its surface.

…

"Castiel?" Anna knocks gently at Castiel's door before peering her head cautiously round the deep ruddy-brown frame. "May I come in?"

"Yes." Castiel smiles, although it feels more than slightly feigned. "Of course."

Castiel's smile—insincere or not—falls when he sees Michael enter behind their sister.

"Michael—" He starts, standing up from where he has been seated on his bed, but Michael raises his hand, and Castiel fall militantly silent.

"There is no need to apologise, Castiel." Michael says slowly. It sounds rather like these words are scripted; especially with the slightly forced, pained expression and tone that Michael holds. Along with this, Anna is staring expectantly at their older brother, which tells Castiel that she has definitely instructed the High King to attempt to reassure Castiel. "We said you had a choice before you went into all of this, and we were telling the truth, and you've made your decision."

"But—"

"You've made your decision." Michael stares firmly at Castiel, leaving no space for an argument. "And we've explained that it's okay."

"I'm sorry." Castiel says—because really, what else is there to say?

"Don't." Michael instructs, shortly. "Now, John Winchester has informed me that there is to be a feast tonight,"

"I know." Castiel nods.

"Good. And I'm glad to see that you've got ready for it." Michael indicates vaguely to Castiel, who bristles slightly at the gesture, although he isn't sure why. "I will inform the king of your decision tonight." Castiel presses his lips together and stares at the floor. "There is no need to fret, Castiel." Michael speaks gently now; it makes Castiel lift his head up to face his brother properly. Michael kneels down in front of his youngest brother, and Castiel is infinitely grateful for his change in tone. "No need to fret." Michael repeats. He brushes his huge wing against Castiel's softly, which is an odd contradiction, considering its colossal size.

"Michael," Castiel starts cautiously.

"I've said there's no need to apologise."

"No, this is something else." Castiel shakes his head.

"What, Castiel?"

"Our wings—do they—" Castiel thinks of what Dean asked him earlier that day, of the foolishly simple question that caused such a ridiculous argument. "Does the colour of our wings say anything about us?"

"What do you mean, Castiel?" Michael asks, a curious frown twisting itself across his features.

"Dean said—earlier today, while we were walking—he said that his mother had always told him that the colours of an Angel's wings said something different about that Angel' character and future, or words to that effect, at least—and I told him he was wrong—and he got offended, but that's not the point—but is it? True, I mean. Is it true?"

"Castiel, is that what your fight with Dean was about?" Anna asks, raising her eyebrows at Castiel and scoffing slightly. Castiel scowls over to her. "I think Gabriel was right, Michael—Castiel is too young for this—and so is Dean, for that matter—they're effectively children!" She giggles teasingly.

Castiel glares even more scornfully over to his older sister.

"—Wait—Gabriel said that?" He asks, feeling a twist of confusion in his gut.

"Yes." Michael confirms. "And he was right, as far as I can tell." Michael's face twists with amusement, and Castiel glowers at him.

"Did you honestly get into a fight over that?" Anna chuckles, and Castiel sighs and ruffles his hair frustratedly with one of his hands.

"Yes." He nods. "And could you just tell me if he was right, or not? That's what I asked, isn't it?"

Michael sighs and sits back on his heels. Anna stands beside the bed, and her hand drifts absently through Castiel's feathers.

"There's some lore surrounding that, yes." Michael says, thoughtfully.

Castiel's stomach drops.

"So Dean was right?" He asks, a worried frown drawing itself across his features.

"Well, I didn't say that." Michael shrugs. "Who's to say if it's wrong or right? We don't really accept it as fact. It's more to do with old suspicions; but then, we accept the belief that the size of an Angel's wings affects their abilities in combat, so why not that?"

"So it is true?"

"I didn't say that."

"So it isn't?"

"I didn't say that, either."

Castiel groans exasperatedly, and Michael's expression softens.

"Listen, Castiel, we accept it as a myth—but yes, it could be—and probably is—grounded in some kind of fact."

"Then what do they say your wings mean?"

"Gold?" Michael hums thoughtfully. "Leadership, I think. Nobility. Nothing too implausible."

"What about bronze?"

"Like Gabriel's? I can't remember," Michael chuckles. "Ability to frustrate? I think it's not dissimilar to gold. Politics, or something like that."

"And red?"

Michael laughs again, apparently very endeared.

"Anna, can you remember what your wings are rumoured to mean?" He asks, turning around to face their sister.

"Teaching, I think. Maybe combat." Anna's lips twitch upwards. "Excellence in everything, quite possibly."

Michael suppresses a smile.

"What would my wings mean?" Castiel asks.

Michael looks down, and when Castiel glances over to Anna, but she too has averted her gaze.

"I don't know." Michael says, shortly. "Blue and black, like yours… It's very rare. We hadn't seen an Angel born with your colourings for hundreds of years before you came into our world." He grazes the back of his hand against the tips of some of Castiel's feathers. "You'd probably have to research that for yourself."

Castiel huffs out a frustrated breath and rubs his face with the palm of his hand.

"But at the very least , that'll give you something to do when you get back to Evadne, won't it?" Anna's voice sounds falsely optimistic.

"Yes, I suppose." Castiel nods. It's a poor attempt of his sister's to keep Castiel out of boredom's way when they are all back home, but Castiel appreciates it nonetheless. "Do you think there is a library, here?" Castiel asks, looking back up at his brother, who raises his eyebrows, questioningly. "And if there is—do you think it'd be alright if I read in there, for a bit?"

Understanding breaches Michael's features.

"Yes," He smiles affectionately. "I'm sure there is."

"And it wouldn't be a problem if I visited it?"

"I'm sure that'd be fine, little Sarim."

Castiel rolls his eyes at the pet name, but doesn't object to his brother ruffling his hair, or pulling him in for a tight hug.

"The feast will be very soon." Michael reminds, his tone becoming flat and formal once again. "You have a little time to unpack and settle in, and then either myself or Anna will come and collect you. Or Gabriel." Michael adds. "But I'm guessing that you'd rather that it wasn't him."

Castiel's lips twitch upwards and he thanks his brother and his sister—Anna waves a goodbye to him as she leaves, and at first, Castiel thinks that Michael is going to exit the chambers without a backwards glance, but just before he reaches the door, his gaze flits over to Castiel and he gives a small, reassuring smile.

"I really am okay with your decision, Castiel." He reminds, but something about his tone is melancholic, and Castiel bows his head as his brother exits.

…

When Castiel makes his way down to the hall for the feast, with both Anna and Michael, as it turns out, he begins to feel increasingly queasy. Seeing Dean again will be awkward, to say the least, especially after Castiel has found out that Dean may have actually been right about the issue of Angel wings.

They can hear the noise of the feast all the way down the stairs; when they are finally outside the doors of the main hall, the din is even louder. Music is playing—much like the music from the tavern that Castiel passed when in his carriage at the beginning of the day; and laughter and shouts can also be heard. More Angels have joined them on the way down, and now Michael stands at the front of the group much like he had earlier in the day during the first introductions.

"I know you don't want to marry him," Michael turns and talks quietly to Castiel, "but at least be cordial, tonight, with the oldest Winchester boy. Please?"

"Of course." Castiel nods, and he looks down at the floor sheepishly.

"You probably won't have to be anywhere near him, anyway." Anna shrugs, attempting to comfort the younger Angel.

"Probably." Castiel agrees absently.

Castiel bristles uncomfortably when they enter the hall, now laid out with two long tables at the front, in parallel, where knights and noblemen and advisers from visiting kingdoms are seated. At the head of the hall is another table, still more lavishly decorated, angled perpendicular to the others. The colours of maroon and scarlet and jade and emerald fill the hall, tapestries now hang from every pillar and beside each window; it is an explosion of colour and light and chatter and vibrancy.

The three tables in the hall join at their corners, forming an incomplete rectangle of sorts, and Castiel looks over to the table at the end of the room, and sees the King and his family there, along with Sir Robert, the King's advisor.

Castiel avoids looking at Dean, although he can feel the Human prince's gaze prickling heavily at his skin. Servants bustle and busy themselves around the place, serving the guests food and wine, and King John stands up and approaches Michael, greeting him in what feels like very feigned friendliness, requesting that he and his siblings sit at the head of the hall.

The King also invites Michael to sit directly next to him—which Castiel assumes is so that he is able to discuss political matters with him and begin to decide on the terms of the Angels entering the Human and Demon war.

Castiel's heart sinks into his stomach when he is directed over to Dean.

"It'll be fine, Castiel." Anna reassures, leaning over to whisper the words into his ear.

"You promised I wouldn't have to—" Castiel hisses at his sister.

"I said you probably wouldn't have to."

"Anna—"

"It'll be fine, Castiel." Anna repeats, rather unhelpfully, before she is redirected over to a seat near their oldest brother.

Castiel scowls at Gabriel when he grins over to Castiel, laughing as his younger brother has to seat himself, very awkwardly, in the chair next to Dean's.

Dean stares ahead, apparently not wanting to talk to Castiel, which Castiel thinks he can understand.

It doesn't mean it hurts any less.

"Um—" Dean starts, turning back to Castiel and taking him by surprise, making him jolt slightly in his seat. "—Sorry." Dean stumbles over his words. "Well, now for two things—for making you jump, I mean—and for earlier. The fight, that is—which is kind of the big thing. I'm sorry. I was rude and I behaved like an ass—and I kind of do, in general, but I really try not to—I really do—I know it might not seem like it—but I definitely didn't want you thinking that I'm an ass—and I'm sorry. I was a dick, and I don't have an excuse. I just got kind of pissed, but—"

"I understand." Castiel nods. He tries to supress the smile twitching at his lips. Something warm and relieved and very unfamiliar curls in his gut.

"Thank you." Dean nods. "And I'm sorry that you have to sit next to me—I'm probably the last person—"

"That's fine." Castiel shakes his head. He questions why it is it's so hard for him to suppress his smiles whenever he speaks to the Human—normally Castiel hardly smiles at all, yet speaking to Dean seems to bring them out uncontrollably.

"Sorry…" Dean mumbles again, like he doesn't know what else to say.

"That's fine." Castiel repeats, and it's definitely not affection burning brightly in his chest. No. Never. "And I spoke to Michael earlier, anyway, and it turns out you were right—or, you could be right."

"Right about what?"

"Wings—our wings—Angel wings, that is. But—well, Michael said that yes, there is some lore surrounding that, and it is most likely founded in some kind of truth. So, you could be right, and I'm sorry, too."

Dean bites his lip.

"Well, that's not an excuse for my behaviour." Dean shakes his head, his tone doleful.

"It sort of is."

"It's not. I'm sorry for shouting—"

"I'm sorry for shouting, too."

"But I shouted first—"

"Well, I shouted louder."

"I didn't realise it was a competition?" Dean's mouth twitches upwards, raising his eyebrows at Castiel—and something about the look he gives makes Castiel's face heat, which it doesn't usually do, but Dean is—

Well, different, apparently.

"I'm sorry for shouting." Castiel repeats, his voice very small.

"You don't need to apologise,"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't deserve an apology."

"You do." Castiel frowns. "Really, I behaved just as badly as you did."

"That's definitely not true." Dean shakes his head. "Think about how rude I was. And the fact that you're a guest, here. I was way out of line, I behaved so inappropriately."

"But I—"

"Castiel, it's fine." Dean laughs, shaking his head. "Wow, you're almost as stubborn as me. Not in a bad way." He adds this amendment, quickly, to the end of his sentence, but Castiel shrugs him off.

"My siblings have informed me that obstinacy is one of my shortcomings, on many occasions."

Dean's lips twitch into a smile.

"Yeah, Ellen likes to say that to me, too. Sammy does as well, for that matter."

"Why do you dislike having other people apologise to you?" Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side.

"Um—" Dean frowns.

"Sorry—you don't have to answer if you don't wish to."

"No, that's fine." The Human shakes his head. "I don't know. People don't, usually—well, not to me."

"Why not?" Castiel asks, again. He narrows his eyes slightly as he regards Dean, and tilts his head absently to the side, but something about his action makes Dean smirk a little, and Castiel frowns and composes himself again.

"I fuck up. A lot." Dean shrugs, and Castiel dislikes the certainty with which Dean says this, how honest and detached the words sound when forming in his mouth. "People don't tend to apologise to me, 'cause they shouldn't."

"You fuck up?" Castiel repeats, raising his eyebrows at Dean.

"Oh, right—fuck is a curse word—it basically means I—"

"I know what it means." Castiel defends quickly.

"Right—sorry." Dean's face heats, and something about the expression makes Castiel smile again. "Well—all I meant was… I'm really good at ruining things. And my father's really good at putting up with me—"

"You're his son. He should, anyway."

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "I feel like some of the stuff I've done is a little inexcusable. But sorry—about me trying to explain what fuck means—I mean—I didn't mean to offend you on the whole language thing… What I'm trying to say is, you speak perfectly, and I…" Dean trails off, his face a little bit torn, and Castiel has to suppress a smile once again.

"That's fine." Castiel brushes aside. Dean bites his lip and smiles nervously at Castiel, looking up through his eyelashes at him. Something about the look has Castiel's insides crumpling.

"How did you learn to speak our language so fluently?" The Human asks.

"We are taught all your languages—or at least, the most widely used—from a very young age. As part of our studies."

"Angels, you mean?" Dean asks.

"Yes." Castiel nods. "And I," He pauses, his voice faltering—should he really be telling Dean this? Is it wise? He sighs and continues anyway. "—I enjoy reading your literature. We have a library—back in my home—where there are whole sections dedicated to Humanity's writings; I spend much of my time sitting in seclusion and reading books and plays and poetry written by you Humans. I like it. It's far more personal than what most Angels write. Particularly about love, I find."

Fond amusement and fascination twist at Dean's features, and Castiel feels himself squirming slightly under his gaze.

"I think I get it." He nods—the smile that is making Castiel's insides squirm awkwardly is still tugging at Dean's lips. "We have a library here, too… I could take you there some time, if you want." Castiel perks up a little. "—Would you—would you want that?" Dean stammers slightly. Castiel lets out a happy breath.

"Yes." He nods, quickly. "Yes, I would love that. Would it be any trouble?" He asks, raising his eyebrows at Dean. Dean seems to sigh in relief, and Castiel feels a pulse of confusion at this.

"No—no, it'd be fine. I'd love to."

"Thank you." Castiel smiles. Dean returns the look tenfold.

"It's really no problem." He shakes his head. Castiel notes how awkwardly it is Dean's hands fumble with one another. "Do you… do you still want riding lessons? 'Cause I get it, if you don't—after our fight, and all…"

"I would still love to have you teach me, Dean." Castiel nods.

"Good." Dean stumbles with his words again. "Great."

There is a pause for a moment, and Castiel feels relieved when the meal is laid out in front of them by bowing servants.

"Food!" Dean grins, pulling his plate closer towards him and shovelling a meat that Castiel doesn't think he recognises into his mouth.

"What is that?" Castiel asks.

"Huh?" Dean asks through his mouthful. Castiel frowns slightly at Dean's terrible manners.

"You eat like a pig." Castiel observes. Dean grins at him, his mouth still full, and winks. It makes Castiel feel a little sick. "Worse than a pig." Castiel shakes his head.

"Sorry." Dean swallows, at last.

"When you're a king, you'll probably have to improve on that, you know." Castiel informs, but Dean just rolls his eyes.

"When I'm King, I won't have to do shit for anyone. That's kind of the whole point."

"The whole point is to serve—"

"Oh, fuck, don't start that again." Dean groans, and Castiel frowns again, feeling more than slightly defensive.

"You'll want people visiting your kingdom to feel welcome, won't you?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Then I suggest not eating in a way that makes them want to vomit." Castiel bites, turning back to face out to the hall again. Dean sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand.

"Sorry." He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm not very used to company."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not good at dealing with people—normally it's just me and Sammy. I have a couple of friends, sure; but I'm not used to—" He gestures between them, "this." He finishes.

"What's 'this'?" Castiel asks.

"I don't know, formal shit. Formal shit with people my age. I don't get to spend much time with people my age. You can probably tell by all my cursing—Ellen always picks me up on that. I'll stop."

Castiel shrugs.

"You don't need to."

"Well, anyway, the point is I don't tend to get much company."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, there just aren't that many people my age and my rank around, I guess. As friends go, there's Ellen's daughter, Jo, who I'm very close to, I suppose—but she's a servant and John's not really happy with me talking to her."

"Why?" Castiel asks. He cringes at how many questions he's asking.

"Father thinks servants and royalty shouldn't mingle." Dean shrugs. "It's bullshit. I'll change that when I'm King."

"I think that'd be a good thing to do, yes." Castiel nods thoughtfully. Dean turns to him, lips playing softly upwards.

"But I'm not going to be a king for ages, anyway, so there's no need to worry."

"What makes you say that?"

"My father's not going to die any time soon, thank the gods." Dean shrugs.

"Right." Castiel looks down at his plate properly for the first time now. "And what type of meat is this?" He asks again, gesturing down to it.

"Oh—yeah, sorry." Dean shakes his head, as though snapping himself out of something of a daze. "That's pheasant. Have you never had it before?" He asks. He sounds a little incredulous, and it makes Castiel feel distrustful.

"No," He shakes his head. "I suppose I haven't."

"Wow." Dean says, somewhat ineloquently.

"Pheasant?" Castiel repeats.

"Pheasant. It's a type of bird. Eat it, you'll like it."

Castiel cuts off a small piece. He decides that Dean is right—it's a little like the fowl the farming Angels keep further down the mountains, although it has a more gamey taste and Castiel guesses that it is not a bird which is farmed for, but rather hunted.

"It's still so strange to see you guys eat, you know." Dean huffs a breath of laughter as he watches Castiel take another mouthful of the meat.

"Everyone eats, Dean." He reminds, taking another bite.

"Yeah, I know." Dean chuckles. Castiel tries not to think about how much he likes the sound of Dean's laughter. "So how is it that you've never had—or even heard of—pheasant, before?" Dean asks, and Castiel is grateful for the fact that Dean clearly reminded himself to swallow his food before speaking again.

"We just don't get them on the mountains, I suppose." Castiel shrugs. "Where do they normally live?"

"Forests, fields." Dean shrugs. "Woodlands. Those kind of spaces."

"Right." Castiel nods. "Well, there aren't too many fields on the mountains, believe or not."

"I can believe it." Dean chuckles. "What kind of animal do you get, then, up in the mountains?"

"Well, it depends on where exactly you are, as always, I suppose." Castiel muses. "Higher places will have different wildlife to the lower regions; as well as each kingdom having a few differences in which animals are native to it."

"Okay." Dean nods. "I get it."

"There are wolves," Castiel thinks, and Dean looks immediately surprised and very excited.

"Wolves?" He repeats, raising his eyebrows as though this is something that seriously impresses him, and Castiel pauses in his response, unsure if Dean is mocking him or not. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously." Castiel nods. "You've never seen one?"

"No, they don't come out this far." Dean shakes his head. "We only get wild dogs and foxes and that kind of shit out here, but nothing as exciting as wolves."

Castiel laughs at Dean's tone. Dean seems to pick up on this, but instead of looking indignant, he grins and winks at Castiel, once again, and Castiel catches his face flushing in the reflection of his goblet. He tries to persuade himself that it is only because of the reddish light of the hall and the bronze of the goblet that he looks quite so red-faced, but it's hardly any use.

"What else lives there?—And are the wolves dangerous? Like, do you get attacked by them, ever?"

Entertainers and jesters have come out and are dancing and performing magic tricks, while the ever-loud music continues playing, a man playing a lyre sings songs far less bawdy than those Castiel heard coming out of the taverns in the lower citadel, but Dean ignores them and remains staring interestedly at Castiel.

"No," Castiel shakes his head. "I suppose they know better than to attack our kind. And anyway, their dens are far away from our cities and villages."

"How far?" Dean asks.

"Far enough." Castiel shrugs. Dean frowns and takes another mouthful of food, still looking at Castiel.

Servants are still bustling around them, and refilling people's goblets with sweet wines; Castiel finds himself disliking the disrespect with which many of the men at the tables address those serving them. He thinks to bring it up with Dean, but decides to ask him about it at a later date, and so pushes the thought out of his mind for now.

"Still close enough that on some nights, you can hear their howls being carried by the wind." Castiel adds. Dean looks seriously impressed at this, and Castiel feels something dangerously close to pride swell up inside of him.

"No—that's like something out of a fairy tale!" Dean exclaims. "It's—" He seems lost for words. "Wow. I'd like that, I think—at least the thrill of it. Isn't that scary?"

"Not really." Castiel shrugs.

"I guess for you it's kind of normal, huh?"

"Yes." Castiel nods. "That would be true."

"So, what other animals?"

"We get foxes, too, and some other wild dogs, just like you would see here."

"Oh." Dean nods, absently picking at still more of his food while he listens to Castiel talk.

"Sometimes I see some wild cats from the castle. I see them running or crawling over the face of the mountain. Sometimes they stand on large rocks, looking out for prey."

"Woah," Dean nods, and once again he sounds as though he is genuinely impressed with what Castiel has to say. Castiel feels entirely perplexed with how much he likes how intently Dean listens to everything he says, how fascinated Dean looks with whatever it is Castiel talks about.

None of Castiel's siblings—Michael, in particular—have very much time to listen to what it is Castiel has to say, which could be why he enjoys Dean's unquestioning attention so much. This seems like a good answer, although Castiel senses for whatever reason that it's not the whole truth of the matter.

"That's fucking awesome." Dean beams, looking out at the hall now as though he has been struck dumb by wonder.

Castiel's lips quirk upwards.

"Yes, I've never really thought about it, but I guess it kind of is."

"Kind of." Dean snorts. "Do you know the names of any of the wild cats there? And are they the big ones?"

"A lot of them are, yes." Castiel nods. "We get leopards—clouded leopards, and in the colder parts of the mountain, snow leopards."

"Snow leopards? Fuck!"

Castiel cannot help but laugh at Dean's constant amazement.

"And bears, by the rivers, and in the forests."

"How big are the mountain ranges?" Dean asks.

"The Great Mountains take up well over the space of all your Earthly Kingdoms—we don't inhabit all of the areas, you must remember—but the expanse is larger than all your Kingdoms and the spaces in between, and larger than the Cerydien sea combined with that. So, very big." Castiel concludes.

"It must be so brilliant up there." Dean states, shaking his head in amazement.

"Yes," Castiel agrees, pensively. "I suppose I'm very lucky."

"You don't fucking say." Dean grins, still shaking his head.

"You're the son of a king, Dean, you're lucky, too."

"Yeah, alright, point taken. But still—you've gotta admit, that's very exciting."

"Yes." Castiel nods again. "It is. But like you said—it's just normality, for me. I don't really notice any of that stuff—the wildlife, that is. To me, you having horses at your disposal is just as impressive as me looking out the window and seeing a snow leopard is to you."

"Fair enough," Dean concedes, fiddling with his goblet for a moment, before taking a drink from it. "But I don't get how horses could ever be as cool as fucking leopards."

Castiel's lips twitch upwards at Dean's words. He wishes they'd stop doing that.

"We have eagles, too. Many Angels train them. And some Angels believe there are phoenixes, deeper in the mountains—and that the eagles are some of their descendants." Castiel states—and he immediately loathes himself for it—it's as though he's trying to impress Dean, and—

"Fuck," Dean mumbles, sounding slightly winded. Well, if Castiel was trying to impress him—which he prays he wasn't—it certainly worked. "How could you ever be bored?" He asks, looking up at Castiel.

Castiel shrugs.

"It's normal, for me." He reminds.

"Right."

"In my sister's kingdom—Tyrzah—she says sometimes they get tigers. But I'm not sure if I believe her—I'd always heard tigers live further out into the mountains than that."

"Have you never visited her kingdom?"

"Yes, but I don't go very often. And even if I did visit often, it's unlikely that I'd see one—a tiger, that is—even if they do sometimes occasionally traverse the Kingdom."

"I'd be fucking terrified if I ever saw a tiger." Dean states, taking another mouthful of food.

"Me too." Castiel admits. Dean looks up at him and laughs softly. "What is it?" Castiel asks, frowning.

"I never pegged Angels as the type to get scared, I guess."

"Everyone gets scared, Dean."

"Just like everyone needs to eat?" Dean asks, smiling wolfishly, and Castiel has to look down. "I'm kidding." Dean grins. "I guess it's just a little odd for me, finding out your people are so… well, Human."

Castiel isn't sure if this is meant offensively or not.

"All I mean is," Dean starts again, quickly, after seeing Castiel's expression, "I'd always heard a whole bunch of fairy tales about you guys, and I'd kind of imagined you as these—things—that didn't need fucking anything. You know? Probably not—that doesn't make any sense, really. Um—like, I'd always thought of you as a little like deities, or something."

"We're not gods, Dean."

"No, I know," Dean shakes his head. "But I'd always thought of you as them. That sounds really fucking weird, sorry—"

"It's fine." Castiel shrugs. "It's flattering. I think Angels might actually have disappointed you quite a lot, if that's what you'd always thought."

"You haven't." Dean states, quickly, and Castiel looks inquisitively over to him. "…I'd um—I spent a long time thinking you guys were assholes, too." Dean admits. He looks somewhat guilty as he says this, and Castiel wonders why that is.

"Oh." Castiel frowns. "Why is that?"

"—Was that," Dean corrects.

"What?" Castiel frowns again.

"I don't think you're assholes anymore."

"Right." Castiel tilts his head to the side. "Thank you?"

Dean blushes.

"—Look, all I mean is, after seeing war, I got kind of pissed that none of you ever seemed to intervene. And I'd always learned that your ancestors had promised our ancestors that you'd help out if Humanity was ever in need of it—"

"They did." Castiel nods.

"But you didn't help. And I know you're helping now, but a few months back, it really didn't feel like any help would be given, ever. And war is… war," Dean bites his lip, cutting himself off. He looks down, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time in a long while, Castiel becomes aware of the people around them, once again.

Of the loud buzz of conversation in their ears, of the Angels and Humans speaking to each other, of the dull clatter of silver cutlery on pewter plates, of the sound of goblets banging on thick wooden tables.

"War," Dean sighs. "It's fucking horrific. I don't—" He bites his lip. "It felt like you'd abandoned us. And after all those bedtime stories about you guys—it felt—it feels like you've abandoned me."

Castiel doesn't know what to say.

"You know what my mom used to say to me, every night, before I went to bed?" Dean asks. "She told me that Angels were watching over me. And I believed her. And then it turned out that you weren't—it just felt like a betrayal, you know? Like, I'd spent my whole life with this promise; with this promise that I'd never be alone—and then, when it turned out it wasn't true, I felt like I'd been abandoned, or something. And I didn't like it. And maybe that's why I lashed out, earlier—because I still feel kind of shit about it. Does that make any sense?"

Dean looks up at Castiel with a look in his eyes like he is begging Castiel to understand him.

"I'm sorry." Castiel says, and his voice is surprisingly small.

"Don't be. It's not your fault." Dean brushes Castiel's apology aside. Castiel wonders if this is a force of habit. "Like I said; I romanticised you guys. That was a mistake—you're people, you're not gods."

There is a bruising silence. Castiel doesn't know how to respond—his social skills with Angels are limited, at best—but with Humans? He has almost no idea of how to interact, and it certainly shows.

"Where is your brother?" He asks, finally, and although it is a pitiful attempt to change the subject, Dean seems to accept it.

"Not here." Dean states the obvious; and Castiel thinks this is the only response he is going to get, but then Dean speaks again. "He's with Ellen. Father thought he was too young to be here tonight, which, naturally, made him throw a huge hissy fit. He was yelling that John was treating him like a child and all that crap, but he forgets that he is a child. But I get that he's pissed."

"Why do you understand?"

"The King treats me like a child, too."

Yet Dean is a child.

Castiel doesn't say this. Because it would annoy Dean, because it would mean admitting that Castiel is a child, too, because it would remind him, yet again, of how ridiculous the engagement plan is.

Except, oh—Castiel isn't engaged to Dean anymore. And something in his heart sinks at the thought—and he wonders how insulted and angry Dean will be when he finds out—and he wonders if Dean will be insulted or angry or upset at all, and he hates the part of his heart that prays that Dean would be anything other than relieved about the engagement being over; but it's foolish to think that way.

Because all that would mean getting attached, admitting that Dean is actually alright—more than alright; and that Castiel had overreacted earlier. And Castiel can't do any of those things, he can't get attached when he's already cancelled the betrothal.

And now another thought crosses his mind—if he doesn't marry Dean, he will certainly have to marry someone else at some point in the future. And he won't be marrying them for love. But if he married Dean—

He can see himself growing to love Dean. He can hardly bring himself to explore this thought further; he can't tell if it thrills him or terrifies him, but Dean—

"But you're here, tonight?" Castiel asks, instead of pursuing his thoughts any further, and Dean shrugs, his lip curling.

"So, tonight father decides to treat me like an adult. But mostly—mostly no, he doesn't. He treats me like a fucking kid, which is actually kind of funny, seeing as I've been in battle, seeing as he's planning on marrying me off—" Dean cuts himself off. He looks up at Castiel. "Oh, I forgot to mention, my father is marrying me off, but I don't even know who to. How fucking shitty is that?"

Oh. Castiel thinks.

Dean doesn't know.

"Why don't you know who?" Castiel asks.

"John never thought it important to find out." Dean sneers out at the empty space ahead of him. "All that matters is the kingdom. That's all that ever matters." The Human's voice is about to crack.

Castiel considers telling Dean, now.

But that would mean telling him that he also broke off the engagement.

And that's the other thing: does Castiel actually want to call things off with Dean? Still?

He glances over to Michael, who is deep in conversation with John Winchester. He wonders if Michael has already told him that the engagement is off, wonders why it is that John has not told Dean who it is Dean is engaged to—wonders if John even knew who Dean is—or rather, was—engaged to.

"My family is the same." Castiel finds himself saying.

"What do you mean?"

"They treat me like a child. Like—like I'm too young, too naive to be able to cope with the subjects they discuss; it's infuriating—and yet they expect me to sacrifice myself for my kingdom, for our kind—and I think it's more than I can bear, sometimes."

Dean looks at Castiel with so much understanding that Castiel has to look away.

"I've never met anyone else who got it." Dean says, and his voice is breathless with delight at finding understanding in Castiel and Castiel wishes that he was breathless for some other reason. "I didn't think anyone else could."

"Well," Castiel shrugs. "I suppose I do."

"Yeah," Dean nods absently. Castiel looks back up, into Dean's eyes, and swallows thickly. Their knees brush under the table. Castiel's pulse quickens, and then it slows down all but completely. "I guess you do."

"I need to go speak to my brother." Castiel says, without thinking, and Dean appears slightly taken aback. "I'll be back in just a moment."

He stands up, pushing back his chair, and rushes over to his oldest brother, tugging him out of conversation with the King.

"I have to speak with you." Castiel says quickly.

"What about?" Michael frowns, and Castiel blushes when he realises that he is speaking in Enochian, and that he has just interrupted his brother and King John mid-conversation.

"Sorry, Your Majesty," he says quickly, turning to John Winchester and bowing his head. John shrugs him off and allows him to continue. Castiel decides that it's best to begin speaking in Enochian to his brother, again. "Have you told King John that I don't wish to become betrothed to Dean, anymore?" Castiel asks, his voice a panicked whisper.

"No," Michael shakes his head, frowning again. "I haven't had the time, unfortunately. Sorry. I'll get round to it. It's sadly a subject I'll have to be rather delicate with, but I'll breach it tonight, I promise—"

"No!" Castiel exclaims, a little too quickly, and he blushes at both his brother's and King John's raised eyebrows. "I don't think I want it to be off, anymore."

"What?"

"I think—I think I've changed my mind."

"Again?"

"Well, if you remember, I'd never actually made it up in the first place, Michael—" Castiel hisses, but his brother sighs and cuts him off.

"Okay, okay. Fair enough. I won't tell him. The engagement isn't off."

"Thank you." Castiel whispers, relief sweeping over him.

"That's fine." Michael brushes his comment aside. "Out of interest—what made you change your mind?" He smirks slightly, and Castiel reddens once again.

"Not now, Michael." He mumbles, looking down.

"Okay, little brother." Michael concedes. "Go back to your seat now—next to Dean." His features twist in amusement. "I'll see you tonight."

Castiel is about to walk off, when Michael grabs his wrist and tugs sharply at it.

"But, for the record, little brother; you were right. You are too young to be doing this. And so, although I will not tell the King I wish for the engagement to be cancelled; I will tell him that I want it pushed back. You're still only a child, after all." He squeezes Castiel's hand at this, and Castiel knows that it is meant to be comforting, but he wants to shudder away from the condescension of the touch.

"Thank you." He mumbles again. He bows his head to King John before turning and leaving, back to his seat.

"What was that about?" Dean asks, when he returns.

"Nothing much," Castiel shrugs. "I just had to tell my brother something."

"It was important?" Dean inquires.

"Yes." Castiel admits. "I think so."

"Are you okay?" Dean asks.

"I'm fine, now." Castiel nods. "Thank you."

"It's no problem, you are a guest, after all." Dean smiles. His smile turns into a grin when he looks out, in front of him, and sees servants bringing in another course.

"How many courses are we going to have?" Castiel asks, because frankly he already feels very full.

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "The King always likes to bring in a whole bunch when we have guests, just to impress them—it's this really big ego trip for him to be honest. But I like the food, so I don't complain."

Castiel can honestly tell Dean likes the food. But he doesn't say this. It would probably be rude. He watches Dean shovel course after course into his mouth, only taking a few small mouthfuls from each one, himself. There are soups and pies and meats of all kinds—far too few vegetables for Castiel's liking, although Dean explains that to Humans they are considered a peasant's dish and so are generally avoided. Dean is relentless in his eating. Castiel states this, taking a delicate spoon of his own soup, and Dean bursts out laughing.

"Yeah, I guess I am." Dean admits. "But I'm not allowed much fun nowadays, so I've got to take what I can get. And food is great." He laughs. "Call it hedonistic. Anyway, training really takes it out of me. If I didn't eat this much I'd probably be starved." Dean winks. Castiel smirks because he seriously doubts that, but he doesn't say anything more.

"Pudding!" Dean exclaims, when the cooks bring the desserts in. Another smile twitches at Castiel's lips. "What?" He asks.

"Nothing." Castiel shrugs, but he still has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling.

"You're mocking me." Dean states, but a grin spreads quickly across his face.

"Mocking would require talking." Castiel shrugs. "I wasn't saying anything."

"But you were thinking it."

"Thinking what?"

"You tell me." Dean grins. Castiel has to look down again. "Hey, are you going to visit any other Human Kingdoms while you're here?" Dean asks, tone inquisitive.

"No," Castiel shakes his head, "only Hera—although Michael may visit Castle Eofor soon, but I don't know if I will. He said he'd rather go alone; I think it might be important. Have you ever been there?"

"Yeah, but I can't really remember it." Dean replies. "It's nice, though—very pretty. It's set in a forest, just like the castle here, but it's surrounded by hills and mountains, too."

"And what about the other Kingdoms? Have you ever visited those?"

"Corinna I visit a fair bit." Dean nods. "—There's a plague ravaging the place right now, though. Did you know that?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"Well, there is," Dean continues. "And it's really bad. Terrifying, Bobby said, and he's not the kind of man to find anything scary."

"What's happening?"

"They say that the people's eyes are turning black, and then they just die. But when they do, all this black gunk starts oozing out of their eyes and ears and mouth. It's horrible. Anyone who gets it is doomed to death—there's no remedy, so they say."

"That's awful."

"It is." Dean nods. "I hope to God it doesn't spread here, although it might do, which is a horrible fucking thought. No one is safe, no amount of noble blood can save you—it hits as many rich as it does the poor. Well, proportionately, I mean. How scary?!"

"Do they know what's causing it?"

"My father says that some people are blaming the water, or saying that it's evil spirits coming up from the earth—they had a quake there six moons past, and they say cracks formed on the ground and black smoke poured out—but I don't know. There's no real explanation, I don't think, although the spirits one is probably bullshit. If—and that's a big if—spirits exist—and I don't really buy into all the seer shit, so sorry if you do—but if spirits exist, they've probably got more on their minds than just spreading a plague. I don't know."

"Probably," Castiel nods thoughtfully. "And what about Dione? Have you ever visited there?"

Dean's jaw clenches.

"I visited it in the Corinnian war." He confirms shortly. "That's it."

Castiel decides not to press, and there is an awkward silence for several long minutes.

Dean stirs, like he is going to say something more, but just before he does, John stands up to make a speech. Castiel glances to his side as he sees Dean, now rigid and militant, listening to his father address the crowd in the hall.

"You seem much less yourself whenever your father is speaking." Castiel observes, mumbling the words quietly in Dean's direction as King John's voice booms out across the hall.

"You don't say." Dean mutters back.

"Why is that?" Castiel asks, his voice dropping from a murmur to a whisper.

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "I always try to do right by him, but it's not easy. And sometimes I feel like I just can't—like I can't make him proud of me at all. And it hurts." Dean admits. "Ever since our mother died—" Dean breaks off, and Castiel can hear his voice cracking, even through his whispered tones. "He's not—he's not looked at me and Sammy the same way since. Which cuts. And I get that it hurts him too—but what about us?"

Castiel nods, and his mind wanders back to thoughts of his own mother, and how he was never gifted the opportunity of knowing her.

"Your mother died when you were born?" Dean asks, and Castiel is slightly taken aback; because it seems almost as though Dean can read his thoughts.

"Yes." Castiel nods. "And I have been told that it made my father very distant, but seeing as it was all I had ever known—"

"You were used to it." Dean nods. "I get it. I think Sammy is the same. I think—because our mother died when he was only a year old—he doesn't realise how different father used to be. And sometimes I want to tell him, you know? Sometimes I really do—but sometimes I'm so pissed off at John—for whatever; for drinking or yelling at me or Sammy, or for treating me like a child—and then I don't want to tell Sam what he used to be like. I kind of want Sam to be convinced that the man's a dick, you know? Is that bad? Is that kind of fucked up?"

"It's understandable."

"No, it's really fucked up." Dean groans, rubbing his face, and Castiel wonders why Dean asked him in the first place if he was simply going to answer the question for himself.

"It's not." Castiel shakes his head again.

"It is," Dean disagrees. "It's spiteful, and it makes me think that I deserve all the shit he gives me. I do deserve all the shit he gives me."

"You don't." Castiel frowns at Dean.

"You're saying that out of pity, aren't you?"

"No." Castiel replies firmly. "I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."

"Right." Dean says, looking out ahead of him, but Castiel can't help but think that the Human sounds more than slightly unconvinced.

"I'm sure your father's very proud of you—for everything you've done." Castiel attempts to comfort, but Dean shakes his head shortly.

"Don't." He mutters. "I appreciate it, really—but don't."

Castiel looks down again.

"I don't deserve that." Dean whispers. His voice is riddled with defeat.

The event ends, and Anna taps Castiel gently on the shoulder, asking if he wants to go back up to his quarters. Castiel gives Dean a questioning look—the two of them had spent the rest of the feast in silence—and Dean shrugs. Castiel stands up and leaves with his sister.

Dean is an enigma wrapped in a mystery.

And Castiel cannot help but be fascinated by every inch of him.

…

When Castiel is by the door to his quarters, he wishes Anna a good night, along with Gabriel and Michael when they appear at the top of the stairs. Michael smiles to him and gives a knowing look, and Castiel has to step inside of his room quickly, face heated.

Guards are placed outside their quarters, and down the corridor, but it doesn't make Castiel feel any more at ease.

He can't sleep that night. He presses his head back against the pillow and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, he thinks to turn it over onto its cooler side so many times he loses count—he kicks off the sheets and pulls them back on until he grows frustrated and weary yet no more able to find rest. None of it works. Castiel is homesick. The air is too heavy and thick down here, it sticks to the back of his throat and it feels as though it settles at the base of his lungs—it tastes warm and the air against his bare skin feels hot and sticky and so different to the cold, light air of the mountains.

In the end, Castiel gets out of his bed and decides to roam the floors of the castle, giving up on drifting off to sleep. He pulls on a loose shirt, pale as the moonlight, before leaving his room, and is forced to mutter his excuse of restlessness to any guards who ask him of his intentions. Most offer to escort him wherever it is he wishes to go, and others near insist on following to keep him safe, but he refuses outright. He feels drained from company and, though he can hardly believe it, tired of speaking in the Heran tongue; his thoughts are becoming jumbled between the languages of Humans and that of Enochian, and it's confusing and draining. Forced conversation with another Human would be more so.

He cannot make out where it is he is, there are only a few sources of light, most of them being windows, angled at such a point that the moonlight is able to stream through in delicate, papery waves onto the dull grey castle floors—any other light comes from the flickering yellow of the flames of candles or torches, but these are few and far between. Castiel wonders if the castle of Hera isn't particularly accustomed to night-time wanderers.

Castiel stops dead in his tracks when he hears the sound of raised breathing and a cry of pain.

"Hello?" He calls out, into the darkness—he speaks in Enochian on instinct, before realising that whoever it is the cry came from probably doesn't understand him—he must be out of the wing of the castle allocated to the Angels by now at the very least.

"Hello?" He tries again—he tries to ignore the timid waver in his voice as he speaks. "Is anyone there? Are you alright?"

He takes another few cautious steps forward before there is another startled cry, and whoever it came from sounds as though they are in distress—and then Castiel realises the sound is coming from behind a closed door to his left.

"Hello?" He asks again, through the wood this time—but there is no response, only the sound of what Castiel thinks is a sob.

And then there's the sharp inhalation of a breath, and the sound of someone fumbling for something, and Castiel knocks on the door, cautiously.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and there's a clatter, and the sound of someone cursing, and Castiel opens the door slowly, peering through it warily.

And then he sees Dean, and there are scars stretching across all of the skin on Dean's back, and still more on his shoulders and another long one jarring across his left arm, and Castiel wants to jump back and slam the door, but he can't; Dean has started in fright and has seen him, the hand that Dean was rubbing across one of the great scars on his back falters, and Castiel can see that the Human's face is damp with tears and his eyes are bloodshot and there are dark circles forming underneath them.

"Castiel?" Dean asks, and his voice sounds raw—not just rough with sleep but ragged from his cries of distress in the night.

"I'm sorry—" Castiel stammers. "I didn't mean to intrude—I heard screaming, and—"

"That's fine." Dean blinks wearily, and Castiel watches as Dean lights another candle beside his bed and picks up a small, glazed pot of something. "You couldn't sleep either, huh?" Dean asks, and Castiel nods.

"Something like that. I was probably feeling a little homesick."

"That's understandable."

"Your air tastes different down here." Castiel says, without thinking, and maybe it's because he's so tired and maybe it's because he feels so comfortable around Dean; but either way, he hates himself for how foolish and dull he sounds.

Dean snorts. "Oh? I guess I can imagine."

Castiel cannot tell if Dean is mocking him or not.

"You were having nightmares?"

"Something like that." Dean presses his lips into a thin line, and Castiel thinks that he is attempting humour, but Dean honestly looks much too run down and exhausted to be able to do anything humorous and get away with it.

"You said you'd been to war—" Castiel squints, attempting to put the pieces together.

"Yeah." Dean nods. "And believe it or not, tonight's actually been quite a good one for the nightmares, all things considered."

"It didn't sound very good." Castiel frowns.

"I mean in comparison to some of my others, it's been pretty tame."

"Oh." Castiel says, because he isn't really sure of what else he can say. "It must have been awful." He states, and once again, he pins the blame for his ridiculous comments on his own exhaustion, but really, it's just him being stupid at this point.

"Yeah." Dean nods distantly, face troubled. "It was."

"I'm sorry—"

"Not your fault." Dean shrugs. He opens the pot and Castiel thinks he can see some kind of ointment in the dull flickering of the candles in the room; and Dean dips his fingers in it and attempts to rub it over his back. "Fuck, this part is always hard." He mumbles, his voice straining a little as he attempts to reach the spots which have scarred over the worst. "It's for the scars." He explains, when he sees Castiel observing inquisitively.

"I'd worked that much out for myself, thank you."

"Sorry." Dean mumbles. "Ellen gave it to me. She says it helps them heal better. They always… burn a little, after my nightmares." Dean swears when he nearly drops the pot in an attempt to hold on to it whilst rubbing his back. "Shit." He mumbles, wiping his hand across the small amount of solution that has dripped over the side of the pot in the fumble.

"I could do that, if you want." Castiel offers, without thinking, and he is about to kick himself again for saying such foolish, needless things, but then he catches the way Dean's breathing falters and his pupils dilate and something like hope stirs itself inside of Castiel.

"You—" Dean's voice catches in his throat. "Okay." He nods, holding out the pot to Castiel, and Castiel is a little taken aback by Dean's response.

He takes the pot, anyway—the glass of it is cool against his skin, and he is thankful for it. The ointment smells sweet and soft. He dips his fingers inside of it, just as he saw Dean do, and then his hand falters, over Dean's back—because really, is he actually about to do this? Why?

He doesn't leave himself time to answer his own question. Dean's breath falters again when Castiel's fingers finally make contact with the Human's back; and Castiel doesn't miss the slight hitch in the rise and fall of his chest—or the quiet, relieved moan that escapes his lips when Castiel begins to rub the oils in.

"How did you get these?" Castiel asks—because he needs to ask something; because it feels like magma has replaced his blood, because he feels like any second now he may forget how exactly to breathe, because he can see Dean's eyelashes fluttering closed and Castiel desperately needs a distraction.

And then he realises that his question may have actually been somewhat offensive.

"Sorry," He starts again, but Dean shrugs him off. Castiel can feel the movement of Dean's muscles under his hand, their shift and the rise and fall of his chest, the drag of shoulder blades moving—the absence of wings from his back; just the slope of skin—and he cannot help but continue to be fascinated by it.

"It's fine." Dean says, and he runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. "Like I said, it was when I went to war—and I don't want to go into that much detail, if it's alright. But, something went wrong… someone fucked up, or something, and our whole division got sent to the wrong place, and we were ambushed, and—" Dean sighs, breaking off. "We lost a lot of men."

Castiel wants to ask about this—to ask if it is only men who fight in the Human world—there are both male and female Angels who are soldiers—but he decides to bring this up at a later date. Dean is nearly trembling under his hands at the memory, and Castiel finds himself squeezing Dean's shoulder softly at an attempt of reassurance.

Dean sighs at the touch.

"And I don't think I should've made it—I basically led those people to their deaths—"

"You were given the wrong instruction." Castiel says softly. "It wasn't your fault."

"But I should've known what to do—"

"You can't save everyone, Dean." Castiel points out, voice quiet.

Castiel thinks that maybe his comment has offended Dean, but then Dean speaks again.

"But I should."

Castiel doesn't know how to respond. He moves his hand lower, to a scar that crosses over Dean's spine, and Dean straightens his back out under the touch.

"That still doesn't answer my question." Castiel says thoughtfully.

"I said I made it out alive." Dean's tone is somewhat flat. "Dione—that kingdom we were fighting with—they're horrible in their warfare. No mercy. I was wearing armour, but—they found a way around it. I was barely alive when the brigade found us. My father was furious and disappointed and disgusted with me. I could tell."

"Wasn't he more concerned for your welfare?" Castiel frowns.

"Sure. He never said he was any of those things, but he didn't have to. It was all in his tone. All in the way he looked at me when I was being tended to by countless physicians. I'd fucked up,"

"It wasn't your fault."

"I was their captain. I was the one they looked to for commands, and when they needed it most, I failed them."

"You—"

"Can't save everyone." Dean finishes Castiel's sentence for him. "I know."

There is silence for a moment. It settles thickly between the two of them.

"Could you do my arm?" Dean asks, gesturing to the scarring on his left arm, stretching up from just above his elbow all the way to the curve of his shoulder.

"Of course." Castiel nods as Dean shifts himself so that he is facing the Angel a little more, giving him somewhat easier access.

"Thank you." Dean gives a small, quietly troubled smile. "This is so much easier when you have someone to help you."

"I can imagine." Castiel nods, running his fingers down the length of one of the scars, curving gently like a crescent moon. The scarred skin feels different to the rest of Dean's flesh, and Castiel attempts not to be too fascinated by this, but it's difficult. His hands move back to Dean's shoulders. "If you were an Angel," he starts, chuckling softly, "your wings would start here." He presses the pads of his forefinger and middle finger to a spot just off Dean's shoulder blades, and then repeats the action on the other side of Dean's back.

"Wow." Dean's voice comes out soft and quiet with awe. "I can't imagine having wings."

Castiel's thumb brushes slowly over the spot. It doesn't quash his fascination, and he wishes he could spend hours studying Dean's skin.

"I can't imagine not having them." Castiel laughs, and his heart swells inside his chest when Dean does, too.

"Yeah, fair enough." Dean nods. He turns around to face Castiel, now, and Castiel feels his heart sink when he sees Dean reach out for the pot in his hands. "Thank you." Dean smiles, taking it from him, and Castiel doesn't miss the way Dean's fingers graze softly against his own. He wishes the moment would last longer. "It's normally really hard to do that myself; it's nice to have some company, too. So thank you." Dean places the pot carefully on the small table beside his bed.

Castiel looks down, and Dean coughs awkwardly.

"Listen," Dean starts, frowning a little worriedly. "I get it if I'm not your favourite person, after the fight—I get that—but…"

"I don't hate you—or even dislike you—if that's what you're implying."

"Really?" Dean looks up, hopeful. Castiel thinks the looks suits him. Castiel thinks that most looks suit him.

"Yes." He confirms.

"But I—"

"So did I." Castiel shrugs.

There is another silence. Dean gives him a grateful look, and just when Castiel thinks he is going to have to look away, Dean speaks again.

"So, I was talking to my father, after the feast…"

"Okay," Castiel frowns, unsure of how to respond.

"He said, uh—" Dean coughs. "He said he was talking to your older brother, Michael."

"Right." Castiel nods, but he feels his stomach sink.

"Apparently—apparently you're the one I was supposed to become engaged to?" Dean looks up at Castiel, and the Angel wants to look away. "Did you know that?" Dean asks.

"Yes." Castiel confirms, gut twisting uncomfortably. "I did."

The words leaving his lips sound like some kind of confession.

"And you didn't tell me?" Dean sounds a little offended. Castiel feels a pang of guilt shoot through him.

"I thought you knew." Castiel looks down.

"But at the feast, when I said I didn't—"

"I know." Castiel carries on avoiding eye contact with Dean. Shame prickles at his skin. "I just—I didn't know what to say, and—"

He doesn't want to tell Dean he had planned to cancel the betrothal.

"It's okay." Dean shrugs. He offers Castiel a small smile, and Castiel isn't sure if it is genuine or not. "Anyway, he said that you were the Angel I was supposed to be betrothed to. And then he said that the actual engagement's been pushed back—because Michael thinks you're too young—that we're both too young."

"Yes." Castiel nods, because he knows all this, already, and he's not sure what Dean's point is.

"Um—" Dean sighs, and he rubs his face as though he's embarrassed. "All I'm saying is—I'm glad it was you."

"What?" Castiel frowns.

"I'm glad it was you." Dean looks up at Castiel and says the words as though they are the only thing left in the universe that hold any truth. "I'm glad it's you that I'm engaged to—or going to be engaged to. I wanted it to be you. When I first saw the Angels—when I first saw you—I wanted you to be the one who I was engaged to. I saw you, and I wanted it to be you."

Dean's words weigh heavy on Castiel's heart.

"I'm sorry if that sounds messed up. Or if it doesn't make any sense." Dean rubs his face again and lets out an embarrassed sigh, but Castiel's hand touches Dean's without Castiel even realising it, and suddenly their fingers are intertwining together, and Dean is looking up at Castiel with a shy smile tugging at his lips, and Castiel returns the look—and it's strange, but he never smiles half as much as when he is with Dean; and what is even stranger is that Castiel means every one of his smiles when he is with the Human Prince.

"So—I guess—well, I mean—we're sort of fiancés, right?" Dean asks. "Or, like—promised to be fiancés…"

"Engaged to be engaged." Castiel laughs, and so does Dean, and Castiel thinks that he forgets what air is for a brief moment.

"Yeah," Dean beams. He looks up at Castiel, like Castiel is the sunrise and Dean has spent his whole life in the dark, waiting for dawn; and he smiles again. "I'm glad it was you." He repeats.

"I think I'm glad, too."

"Do you want to see some more of the castle, now?" Dean asks, suddenly, and Castiel can't help the warm affection that pulses tightly through him at Dean's request. "Our tour got cut short, last time—sorry." He glances down.

"I'd love that." Castiel nods. "Would it be a problem?"

"No, not at all. There's a place—down in one of the courtyards—I used to go there all the time with my mother—I think you'd really like it, though. Can I take you?" Dean asks, and Castiel actually has to suppress his smile before he replies.

"I'd like that very much, Dean."

...

A/N: Thanks for reading!

Any comments are hugely appreciated! Hope you're all enjoying - next update will be on the 5th October.

If any of you could promote/share this story with anyone as well, I'd be eternally grateful!